


so what would an angel say, the devil wants to know

by boleynqueens



Category: Elizabeth (Movies), The Tudors (TV), The Virgin Queen (TV), Tudor History - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - School, Cunnilingus, F/M, Modern Era, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6074823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?"</p>
<p>"Is that an example…or are you asking me?"</p>
<p>"Both."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. heaven help me for the way i am

**Author's Note:**

> this work is a birthday gift to the lovely Daphne, sckestkids.tumblr.com. i hope you like it! hopefully the second chapter will be up soon, too.
> 
> credit to lucreziaborgia.tumblr.com and coeur-loyal.tumblr.com for the plot inspiration. i hope this does your idea justice, because it was amazing.
> 
> french translation (honestly it's doubtful it's correct french phrasing, it's google translate, basically) will be in end notes, as well as links to songs to go with scenes in the fic.
> 
> title of the work is from fiona apple's 'criminal'

**2002**

Henry's halfway through his coke and whiskey when a tiny brunette hoists herself onto a barstool three seats away from him, sliding an enormous purse (really, practically a suitcase, and white, to match her dress, he assumes) onto the matte black surface of the bar.

Her hair, long and dark brown, spills in waves around her shoulders, her eyes are somehow bright and dark at the same time, and two beauty marks upon otherwise porcelain skin dot a sharp jaw line.

The bartender has been yammering rapid French into his cell phone for the past ten minutes. Henry considers himself lucky that he sat down and ordered fifteen minutes before this guy's phone rang, though at the moment he doesn’t consider himself lucky in much else.

_But maybe that's about to change._

The girl ( _woman? so hard to tell in Los Angeles, whereas in London every woman tends to dress her respective age, here it's anyone's guess, and God help you if it's wrong_ ) taps a manicured hand against the bar. She waves a hand at the bartender, and scoffs at his raised 'one moment' index finger, red and glossy mouth twisted into a scowl.

* * *

Anne pulls her Blackberry out of her purse, massively annoyed by this turn of events. She considers taking out her pack and lighting a cigarette while she's at it (bars have rapidly become non-smoking in the past few years, much to her chagrin)-- perhaps it will make _Jacques Jabbermouth_ here get off his phone for long enough to tell her to put it out; but ultimately decides against it.

"Why are you wearing white to a bar?"

She looks up from her phone, briefly, and assesses the questioner with the British accent: white t-shirt, blue jeans, mid-twenties and handsome, a lighter at his elbow. But his tee is made of something far more supple than some Target purchase, the scoop almost artful, color snowy, the jeans a more dazzling indigo than the water of Santa Monica beach at sunset, shoes an Italian leather, the lighter is sterling silver engraved with a rose, so he obviously has money. His beard and hair are a gingerish brown, nose Greek, mouth stupidly plush (more girlish than hers, even, and she doesn't make a habit out of hooking up with men that are prettier than she is, _thank you very much_ ). His eyes are a blue and grey mixture, the color of a dusky stone she found while combing the beach as a teenager (she had pocketed it and looked it up in the library afterwards: amazonite, apparently) and framed by lashes that are longer than hers ( _again, with the prettiness_ …she is not a fan).

Given that her last-hook up with some wealthy pretty-boy resulted in tears, she's going to take a hard pass at this one. _Thanks, but no thanks_.

* * *

"Because I'm a virgin, obviously," she says in a breathy, high voice (some sort of mocking affect, Henry assumes, rather than her natural voice), she finishes, with an eye roll, " _duh_."

"Are you?" Henry asks, bemused.

" _No_ ," she snaps in a voice like Fiona Apple's (if this _is_ her real one, that is, _it's sexy_ , alto and edgy), smoothing a hand over the tiered white skirt of her dress ( _very 'Seven Year Itch_ ,' which was going to be his next line) "look, I've had a _really_ shitty night, and I'm sure you're like…whatever you are, important or whatever, but I'm _really_ not in the mood for--"

"I'll raise you five I've had a shittier one."

She actually turns in her barstool to face him for that one, narrowing her eyes.

She stares at him as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a thin, silver wallet.

"You're on," she says.

* * *

"You first," he says, his gaze a challenge, smoldering, sweeping over the cleavage above the fitted bodice of her dress.

"Ex's wedding," Anne says.

"And you were the runaway bride?" he asks, laughing.

"No, I was a guest."

"You're not supposed to wear white to a wedding unless you're the bride."

"Well, I _hate_ the bride. And him. So…"

"I see."

"What's yours?"

"Mine?"

"Your shitty night that supposedly tops mine."

"Oh."

He traces a calloused finger over the rim of his glass, filled with a dark liquid but no ice. It makes a ringing sound, and she notices the bartender wince. _Good,_ she thinks.

He lifts the glass, and stares at it, as if reading tea leaves, speaking while looking at it rather than her:

"I walked in on my sister going down on my girlfriend," he says with a smirk before shotgunning the remainder of the drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once he's finished.

" _Christ_ ," Anne says after a beat, working the clasp on her wallet, she flips through the cash in the flap and pulls out a bill with Abraham Lincoln and slides it towards him, "you win."

"I'd rather win a seat next to you. I don't need that," he says, pushing it away, a rather condescending gesture, in Anne's opinion, but given the circumstances, _maybe_ she can let it go.

"You said 'raise you five,'" she says, crossing her arms, the crumpled bill an insult in between them on the bar, mocking her with its existence and return.

"Yes, and it's an expression," he counters, pushing his glass away.

"Not to most people."

"I'm _not_ most people."

"And _yet_ that's what most people say."

"And all _I_ said was 'raise you five'. I could've meant five anything, and you already told me I won."

"Five anything?"

"Sure…five watches, five diamonds, five hours in bed with you…you're lucky all I meant was five minutes sitting next to a pretty girl," he says, patting the stool next to him, "and five minutes of conversation."

"That's two different fives. I _could_ say we only agreed on one," Anne counters, smiling, biting her thumb as she does(lipstick be damned).

"And _I_ could say you've got a smart mouth that I could think of better uses for. But I won't. Because I'm a gentleman," he says with a shrug and an easy smile.

"And yet you _did_!"

"And yet you're still sitting over there," he says, pointing to her seat, then the stool next to him, "and not here."

* * *

"I don't bite," he continues, lowering his lashes, then looking up at her again, "unless you ask me to."

"I'm usually the one that does the biting," she responds, "actually."

"Mmm. Noted," he says, watching as she slides off the stool and takes a reluctant seat next to him, turning to face him, close enough that he can see the mascara on her eyelashes, make out two more beauty marks that dot her clavicle in a pretty row.

"What's the prat's name?"

"The 'prat'?" she asks, brow furrowing.

"The name of the guy that was stupid enough to let you go," he says, elbows on the bar, "I'm curious."

"Henry Percy," she answers, twisting her hair with one hand, clasping her neck with the other, a quiet sadness cast upon her demeanor as soon as she finishes the saying the last name.

"Stupid fucking name," Henry says.

"It is, isn't it?" she says with a laugh, a sound that warms him, throaty and pleasant and unapologetically loud.

"And yours?"

"Mmm?" he asks, eyes drawn to the golden 'B' hanging from her neck.

Usually Henry hates it when people announce their names or initials via some material. He finds it pretentious. Monogrammed towels make him gag, girls that wear t-shirts with their first names on the chests rub him as desperate, and every time he sees a gift shop or gas station display with names on miniature license plates, or teddy bears, or _fucking pillows_ , he finds himself filled with inexplicable urge to knock it over.

Pretentiousness suits her, though. And the 'B' is ambiguous, gives her an air of mystery-- what does it stand for? Is it her first name, her last? The casual observer would have to ask if they really wanted to know. It hints, teases, rather than just shouting out an answer to a question no one's asked.

"What's _your_ name?" she asks.

"Ah…Henry," he admits, reluctantly and she bursts into laughter again, "Tudor; Henry Tudor."

"Yes, miles better," she says, large eyes wide and intent on his, tone solemn.

"More masculine than 'Percy', at any rate," Henry points out, wanting to defend himself.

"Quite."

* * *

Well, turns out Pretty-Boy is funny. Something Anne didn't really expect (people that are as attractive as he is generally aren't-- why would they need to be?), but she enjoys it. Enjoys his impishness, his smirk, his ready remarks, even his smugness, a little bit.

"So, why did--"

"Nope," Anne says, testing him, she leans in and taps his nose, his stunned reaction making her giggle despite herself, "my turn."

" _Your_ turn?"

"You said five minutes of conversation. Not interrogation. I get to ask questions, too."

"Fine," Henry says, gaze shifting from her eyes to her neck, he flips her hair over one shoulder, settling it there, sliding it from his fingers and putting his hand flat against the bar (testing her back, perhaps).

"Did I _say_ you could touch my hair?" she demands, cheeks burning.

"Does that count as a question?"

"No. We'll go one for one," Anne says, tilting her chin upwards.

"Then I _believe_ it's your turn."

"Does your sister…hate you, or something? Why would she--"

"No, she doesn't… she's been backpacking through Europe for the past few years. I didn't even know she was coming over, though I guess she knew my address from the letters we exchanged. Apparently," he says, laughing, "Katherine told her she was my roommate, despite the fact that she doesn’t live at my place…not my girlfriend. So she didn't think she was doing anything wrong."

"You believe her?"

"That's another question, so that means I get two. But, yes, I do. Margaret doesn't lie…Katherine does. She told me she was 21 when we met."

"How old _is_ she?"

"That's three, you're _terrible_ at this…she's eighteen."

" _Gross_ ," Anne says, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

" _Excuse_ me?" he says, looking offended, he starts to play with his lighter, spinning it in circles.

"How old are _you_?"

"I'm cutting you off, it's my turn."

* * *

Henry's mainly facing the bar still, but shifted towards her, and she's the same, face resting on folded hands.

His elbows rest flat against the bar, arms crossed, hands over his biceps.

Already he can tell she's more open than before, less irritated, more receptive in general, head tilted towards him. He tends to have that effect on women, and has it quickly, but her spark is kept lit, whereas at this point most women would withdraw theirs, start flattering his ego, stop saying anything that may be misconstrued as offensive.

_This_ girl has no such worries, _that_ much is clear. She is challenge after challenge, card after card, expression and words equally sharp.

"Why did you two break up?" Henry asks.

She sighs, her mouth twitches and settles into a grimace.

"We had a dinner with his family, to, uh…announce our _own_ engagement, actually," she says, worrying her hands together, fixed on them, examining them.

"And that didn't go well, I assume?"

"Unless your definition of 'well' includes your betrothed's parents telling you in no uncertain terms that you're trash and not good enough to marry into their family…I'd say no."

"What did _he_ do?"

"Nothing. That was the problem. He didn't defend me. Folded…he cried, actually," she says, shaking her head, a chagrined smile on her lips, " _I_ didn't even let them see me cry, and _I_ was the one they were attacking."

"So he ends up marrying…"

"The Percy-approved Mary Talbot."

"Stupid fucking name," he repeats, because… _really_? _Talbot_? _Talbot and Percy_? ' _Tall-butt'_ _and the annoying older brother from Harry Potter?_ _What a fucking pair they must be._

"Yeah," she agrees, laughing, " _stupid_ fucking name. But…I stole from her," she says brightly, as if she's just remembered, clapping her hands together, she gets down from her seat, moves back to her original one, grabs her bag, and slides back to the one next to him.

"Ta-da!" she announces, pulling a bottle of Prosseco out of it with a flourish, as if she's a magician that just pulled a rabbit out of a top-hat.

"Nice," Henry says, examining the label, "expensive, too."

"Hey," says the bartender(who at this point Henry had almost completely forgotten about, honestly), taking his phone from his ear and setting it over his shoulder "you can't drink that here."

* * *

" _Je m'excuse_ ," Anne says, " _mais vous ne l'avez pas été très accommodante putain, non?_ "

" _Pardon, mais_ \--"

" _Me donner deux verres et je vous laisse le reste. Je vais essayer de vous entendre avec ce gars_. _D'accord?_ "

" _D'accord_ ," the bartender says, rolling his eyes, but turning around to grab two flutes and pushing them towards the two of them nonetheless.

" _Merci_ ," Anne says, smiling as she opens the twist off and pours her drink, then Henry's.

Maybe he doesn't think he needs to serve them, given that most of the tables are full of groups nursing their drinks, waifs and their agents pushing around the food on their plates, but that's his problem, Anne thinks. She's _been_ sitting here. He and his shitty customer service can bite her ass, honestly.

"You speak French?" Henry asks.

" _Oui_ ," she says, taking a sip, "I went to boarding school in France. Four years."

It has the crispness of pears, the bubbles light, tingling against her tongue. The bartender leaves with a pitcher of ice water, makes his rounds for refills and orders behind them. Anne wishes for him to trip, spitefully.

"Do you?" she asks.

"A little."

"Oh? Like?"

* * *

Henry drinks from his glass, taking her in.

First, there's the teasing lilt of her voice on the last word she just spoke. Their question game seems to be forgotten. Second, she hasn't moved her hair back from the spot he left it, so her left shoulder, the left side of her neck, is left exposed, vulnerable.

Which means, if she should flush, he will see it. It won't be hidden.

_"_ _Voulez_ - _vous coucher avec moi_ , _ce soir_?"

Her expression remains the same, for the most part, save for the corner of her mouth tugging upwards in a smirk, displaying a dimple as it does.

"Is that an example…or are you asking me?"

" _Both_ ," he says, almost viciously, knowing that he's conveying intensity by her sharp intake of breath.

"Where do you live?" she asks, dipping her finger into her drink, she sucks it off, popping her finger out, leaving a red ring of lipstick around it.

"Close."

* * *

His hands are working furiously at the ribbons on the front of her dress, fumbling as he tries to tug them, Anne ( _Anne, Anne, her name is Anne_ , she had told him her name as they ran from the bar when he asked for it, holding hands, her heels shoved in her bag, pantyhose being the only thing between her feet and the grass they ran across) hoisted up over the metal bar on the side of the elevator of his apartment building.

"They don't," Anne says, gasping as he kisses her behind her ear, then as he lands another one to her neck just under the first (a particularly sensitive area, Henry notes, as that knowledge could serve him well), "there's a zipper, I don't--"

He's just managed to rip them open, exposing the lacy white of her bra and bare skin, when the elevator dings open.

"Mrs. Todd," Henry says, clearing his throat as he quickly rids himself of his leather jacket, using it to cover Anne's chest, "how are you?"

The woman, his mailbox neighbor, actually (not his next door neighbor, given that he lives in the penthouse, no one is) looks like she's just sucked on a particularly bitter lemon, glaring at both of them as she uses both hands to cover up the eyes of her seven-year-old son.

Mrs. Todd shakes her head, slowly, as if her judgment is heavy enough to make it a struggle to move her head from left to right.

Anne beams, face flushed, lips swollen from kissing.

"Hi!" Anne chirps, seeming not the least bit embarrassed, "what's up?"

" _Bye_ , Mrs. Todd," Henry says as the doors start inching towards the center.

"I'll be speaking to the landlord about this!" the woman shouts.

"That'd be my dad, so good luck with that!" Henry says in a cheery tone.

They explode into laughter as soon as the doors close, Anne puts her hand over her mouth, shoulder shaking, laughing so hard that tears leak from her eyes.

Henry pulls down the jacket he's draped over her.

"I want to look at you," he says.

"You ruined my dress," she says.

"I'll buy you another one."

* * *

Henry's not really grateful to Katherine Howard for much (she did give great head, but then she also stole his credit cards on a frequent basis-- to buy lingerie that she'd show him later, but, _still_ ; a _little_ presumptuous of her), but while Anne's in the bathroom, he's quite grateful for the mix CD's she left littered around his apartment.

She has quite a gift for compiling mixes, if nothing else-- there's never anything slightly somber _or_ any lyrics that mention the word 'darling' in any of the CD's that have the words "fuck" or "bang" or "sex me the fuck up" scrawled on them in red Sharpie. _This_ he knows from experience.

So, Henry feels pretty confident as he slides all of them into his stereo disc player and presses the 'shuffle' button. That confidence is reaffirmed when Anne opens the bathroom door, the middle of the bodice of her dress ripped from her clavicle to where her rib cage begins, legs bare (she rid herself of the pantyhose, evidently), neck bare (the 'B' necklace gone), lipstick wiped clean but mouth still slightly stained red (like she's been sucking on a cherry popsicle), and pushes him up against the wall to the intro chords of Apple's _Criminal_.

Henry laughs, enjoying the reaction, catching his tongue between his teeth as he does so, hands against her waist, he pulls her flush up against him, the distance between them practically nonexistent, now.

He's the first to close his eyes, but Anne doesn't make him wait long: she kisses him like she's been in the desert and he's the first glass of water she's had in days. She tastes like rain and cherries (the second one can be explained by chapstick, the first one's a little harder to). Her lips glide over his, theirs overlap, his bottom lip captured between hers as she nips it before letting it go.

* * *

Anne softens the pressure, trying to turn it down from fierce to soft, hands pressed firmly against his shoulders ( _he tastes like mint_ ), tracing her tongue over his bottom lip, what feels like a soft prayer for control that goes unanswered as he pushes her back, forward and forward and forward, until her ass hits the wooden entertainment center, her back flat against it, the force of it causing the CD track to skip:

> _heaven help me, heaven help me, heaven help me, heaven help mee-e--e--ee….._

The stereo makes some glitchy noise, like a little robot hiccup, then commences at the former tempo of the song:

> _[heaven help me, for the way i am](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFOzayDpWoI) _

He rubs his nose against the end of hers, once, then says, "my turn," before kneeling to the floor.

Henry bites his lip, grinning, as he slides his hands up the outer part of her legs, hooks his thumbs through the edges of her underwear, and pulls them down her legs.

Past Anne pats Present Anne on the head. _You're welcome_ , she says, a distant voice in the back of her mind as Henry loops the white, lacy thong over one foot that she lifts, then the other, _you're welcome for being paranoid and deciding to wear good, matching underwear, deciding to shave just in case you ended up framing Henry Percy and accidentally-on-purpose letting TalBotbitch see….that's come in handy, hasn't it, Anne?_

"I'll keep these," he says, drowning out the voice, spinning the small interlacing strips of fabric around his index before tucking it into the pocket of his jeans, "you won't be needing them."

"I don't think _you--ah!_ ," she gasps as he lifts a leg and places a kiss under her knee, lapping his tongue there once, one of her most ticklish spots, she sighs, continues, "I don't…think… _you_ need them either."

Henry stills, puts her leg down, glaring up at her.

"That. Was. _Rude_ ," he says, slowly and evenly, each word a punishment, a delay.

"I--"

Henry stands, takes her hand, pulls her against him, snakes one hand behind the small of her back, the other behind her knees, before lifting her and carrying her past the living room, down the hallway.

He continues to carry her as he walks down the hall, turns around to push his back against the ajar door (to his bedroom, Anne imagines, dizzy at the thought), then placing her onto his King size bed, gently, before snapping the string of the lamp of his bedside table, casting a soft light on the room.

Anne sits up against the plush pillows on the headboard, crosses her arms, sulkily.

"That was rude," he says again, pupils dilated, eyes a darker, stormier blue than she remembers, standing next to the bed, his own arms crossed, "and I think you should be punished for it."

"I doubt you'd know how," she challenges, tilting her head to the side.

" _Oh_ ," he says with a chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand, "oh…my…God."

"We'll need a safe word," he says, unzipping his leather jacket, eyes never leaving hers.

"Like what?" she asks, playing doubtful still.

"Mmmm…'rose'," he decides, shrugging it off and tossing it on the floor.

"What, are you a closeted Titanic fan or something?"

"You better stop mouthing off," Henry warns, "and, no. It's my family crest."

"That's not very sexy."

"Yeah," he says, sitting next to her in bed, nudging her chin upwards, gently, with his hand, "kind of the point."

"Fine. 'Rose' it is."

Henry draws his hand away from her chin. He moves to the edge of the bed, back to her, his legs hanging over the side.

"Sit on my lap," he says.

Anne gets up from her seat and does, he holds his hand out and helps her onto it.

The denim feels soft against her bare legs, and he's facing her, close enough that she can make out all the individual hairs against his chin, his jaw line, close enough to trace the strong line of his nose…

"I don't like the way you've been talking to me," he says, voice a velvety whisper, he plays a game of connect the dots across her skin (one mark on her chest, then another, one mark on her face, then the next, brushing his fingers against each one), "and I think you need to learn a lesson about mouthing off."

"Maybe," she admits, shrugging a single shoulder.

"Definitely," he says, "turn around, and go over my knees."

Anne does, getting up from his lap and placing herself over his knees, wriggling around, he helps her adjust, squeezes her waist before lifting the skirt of her dress, exposing her backside.

The air feels cool against her cheeks, and she fidgets some more, wet from the anticipation, from knowing he's looking but not being able to see him look, and she feels his fingers in her hair, caressing it before tugging it, gently, he whispers, "I want you like this. Just. Like. This," and Anne almost cries out from that alone.

She feels him tracing the skin over her cheeks, almost as if making a pattern, before he withdraws his hand, sighs, and spanks her, the force stinging, a thrill running through her at the shock (she shouldn't be shocked, really, she knew this was coming, and yet, and _yet_ …).

Henry rubs the spot of exposed skin that he just hit, gently, as if to soothe it. Then, he spanks her again, repeats the soothing motion. Spanks, spanks, spanks, and her cries are less painful yelps and more breathy moans, her face in her hands.

Something about the combination of being exposed, and totally at Henry's mercy, something about the contrast, his calloused fingers against her soft skin, alternately gentle and punishing, is really, really just…killing her, honestly. What she wouldn't give to be on her back instead, or even back up against the wood of the entertainment center, either or, with his head between her thighs…this just makes her want that even more.

It stings, it _stings_ and she gasps and she nearly spasms when she remembers that her underwear are still in his pocket, being 'kept safe'. In _his_ ownership.

Anne thinks of how he took them from her, how they were in his hands, spun around his finger like she'd thought he was spun around hers, before being tucked away.

Thinks about the white lace, the string of the thong, the silk, being balled up in a fist, then shoved in a pocket, and her, _her_ being without them, defenseless for this moment.

"Have you learned your lesson?" he asks, rubbing a hand under her cheek, sliding a hand in between her legs (not _there_ , but tantalizingly close to there, a fact Anne's sure he's very well aware of).

"Yes," she says.

"Good."

* * *

Henry takes off his shirt, and by the time he's pulled it up and over his head she's rid herself of her dress and is reclining against his pillows, naked from the waist down, bra still on, legs crossed in a beauty-queen stretch.

He studies her with rapt attention, and she pulls her gaze from his, looking instead out the bedroom window, which looks out onto the pool and garden of the apartment complex.

"Want me to close those?" he offers, walking over to the window, he tugs one of the red, velvet drapes gathered by the side.

Anne looks at him, quirks an eyebrow, and shakes her head, slowly.

Henry shrugs (it doesn't bother him, either) and strides over to the bed, unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them, and kicking them off by the time he's at the headboard, left only in his boxers. He takes her hand, kneels onto the mattress and pulls her up to him till she's kneeling too, facing him, torso to torso.

"You should take that off," he says, slipping two fingers between the ravine of her breasts, tugging the front clasp.

"I'm good," she says, heat rising to her face, a light pink dusting her ears as well

"I can't think of any reason you'd want to--"

"They're small," she says, overlapping the hand that's touching her sternum and tugging it, trying to pry it from its hold on her bra, he assumes.

"I can see that," Henry says, looking down at her chest, the expanse of skin under her collarbone taut, cleavage minimal, the swell of her breasts is a delicate one, and only just above the top of her strapless bra.

" _Hey_!"

"It's not a bad thing," he reassures, sliding the front clasp open deftly, before she can protest, letting it fall around her waist and onto the comforter, ridding her of the last piece of fabric standing between her and complete nakedness.

Anne takes a ragged breath, eyes darkening but intent on him, still.

Henry hasn't so much as glanced at her exposed chest yet, though he wants to, of course, he's sure delayed gratification will be better. And, besides, it's something she's insecure about, for whatever reason. Assuaging her fears before sneaking a peek only seems right.

"See?" he says, voice low as he cups a hand over a perky breast, eyes never leaving hers as he does, her skin smooth, he rolls a thumb over the nipple and is rewarded with a gasp, "perfect fit."

 He cups the other one and does the same, allowing himself to look, finally, and the view doesn't disappoint: her skin is creamy, breasts pert and nipples a pretty, pale pink, and she shifts her hips, wriggles a little as he caresses them again, swiping a thumb on the underside of each.

"Lie down," he says, kissing her on the corner of her mouth, "I'll be right back."

* * *

Anne waits, lying on her side, taking in the room: the rich tapestries on the walls, colors of scarlet and gold, the mirrors on the outside of his closet, one of the doors of it open, she can make out the sharp lines of a suit, is wondering if she can get away with snooping when Henry returns, two water bottles in hand.

He lies down next to her, settles in on the other side, hands a bottle to her and she drinks, gulps, really, her throat more dry than she realized. She leans over and sets it on the nightstand, and by the time she rolls back over to him he is kissing the hollow of her throat, his hands slide from her breasts to her hips, gripping them, he flips her over onto her back, climbing on top of her, arms pinned on either side of her.

"Got you," he says, kissing a trail from her neck to the bottom of her ribcage, he hooks one arm behind her knees and pulls her to the edge of the bed swiftly and kneels on the floor.

Anne parts her knees, ready ( _about ready times ten, now, actually,_ she's been ready since 'Criminal' stuck and skipped in the stereo) and eager.

Henry rests his face against her left inner thigh, the facial hair on his cheek scraping against the smoothness of her skin, slightly, and whispers against it: "Do I have your permission?"

" _God_ , yes," she says, and is rewarded for that answer by his mouth pressed against her slit (she takes it back, any disparaging thought she may have had about the size of his mouth, it feels luxurious, she _takes_ it _back_ , it's a beautiful mouth and she wants it there).

She was wet way before he traveled downwards, but that affect is now magnified as his tongue laps against her folds, as he squeezes her legs, as his tongue glides over her clit with the gentlest of pressures (she has no idea how he knows that; that she _hates_ when men tap at your clit rapidly, like they're trying to set off a bomb, or play the drums, that she likes being teased around it way before she wants it to be the center of attention).

Anne tugs at his hair and he laughs, the low rumble vibrating between her thighs, but continues, tracing circles with his tongue, he lets go of his hold on her right leg and slips a digit in at the front of the entrance, teasing it there. She moans and he hooks it in farther, then inserts another, sucking the bundle of nerves atop gently as he does.

She shifts her hips, trying to meet the mounting pressure head-on, increase the friction, and ends up bumping his nose as she does.

He slides his mouth off of her and her thighs are trembling, damp with sweat and arousal as he palms her center, brushing his thumb against her clit while he stares at her.

Henry's not smiling, but he's certainly not frowning either-- maybe smirking, if anything, his mouth swollen and red and glistening, eyes hooded and lazy, relaxed as he coaxes her towards orgasm.

Anne's just about to fall apart when his head returns between her thighs. When his mouth takes over where his thumb left off, _that's_ when the waves of pleasure course through in earnest; pulsate and throb until they crash, ebb after the flow, and she's spent, limp.

* * *

Henry covers her with a sheet he's grabbed out of his closet (he kind of has a thing about his bedcovers…as in, he doesn't get under them until he's going to be sleeping), since she's shivering, covered in a sheen of sweat, resting against the pillows again, her bottle of water in hand.

Anne adjusts the sheet, wrapping it around herself, and thanks him.

He sits next to her and drinks his water, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and laughs.

"What?" she asks, curled up, hands resting against her knees, head tilted towards him, mussed hair falling in tangled curls over the sheet tucked in over her chest.

"You said my name," he says with a shrug.

"Oh…I did?"

"Mmm-hmm," he says, nodding, "like, a _lot_."

"Huh," Anne says, eyes mischievously bright, tapping her fingers against the bottle, she reaches for the drawer in the nightstand, opens it, and starts rummaging around.

"What are you doing?"

* * *

Anne ditches her water on the mahogany surface on the nightstand and finds a condom ( _predictably_ , she thinks) within seconds of her search, folds her hand around it, shuts the drawer and returns to bed.

"It's your turn to say mine," she says, whipping the sheet off her body, she straddles him in one swift movement.

She shudders, inadvertently, at the feel of fabric against her center as she shifts, grabbing both of his wrists and pinning them against the mattress.

Henry grins, chest heaving as she grinds against him, he wriggles his wrists as if trying to see if he can slip them out of her grasp, so she tightens it, squeezes her hands around them.

He arches a single eyebrow, eyes dark and grey as rain clouds, face flushed. She's stronger than she looks and she knows it; isn't surprised by his surprise.

"I want to fuck you," she says, bucking her hips against his.

"And I want you to," he says, voice low, "but you should sit on my face, first."

* * *

"You were just there," Anne points out, wriggling on top of him.

"I like the way you taste," he says (more truthfully, he _loves_ the way she tastes, but 'love' is a word Henry's careful not to use on nights such as this, within any context, as it can be easily misconstrued), "and besides, it'll give me time to get ready on my end. _Not_ that I need much help in that department," he says, clearing his throat, attempting to adjust himself from her hold on his hips from in between her legs.

* * *

"I've noticed," she quips, his length hard and warm against her thigh, even through the cotton of his boxers.

Anne lets go of his wrists, because really, she's not going to deny herself a chance at more oral, especially when she now knows the giver is really, _really_ good at it.

She lifts her knees off of him and lies on the other side of the bed, waiting for him as he rids himself of his boxers, and whistles at the reveal.

"Stop," he says while she settles herself over his shoulders, broad and slick with sweat, "you're making me blush."

"No, I'm not."

"Don't be afraid to ride it," he says.

"It's not the only thing I'm going to be riding," she says. 

"Cute."

"I try," Anne says, lifting her torso, she lets it hover slightly above his mouth before resting it gently against it.

His tongue dances against her entrance, sweeps a warm stripe against her slit before his mouth presses into her sex with a closed kiss, then an open, languorous one. She follows his request, rocking her hips, she grabs the headboard with both hands, trying to brush her clit with every movement and succeeding, for the most part.

Henry's eyes are closed, a sweep of lashes against his pale skin, casting shadows down his sharp cheekbones. Sweat gathers at his temples, a drop slides down his forehead, luminescent against the few freckles that dust his face.

Anne hears the swish of skin against skin, feels his shoulder shift up and down against her leg as he touches himself. Usually such a sound would bother her, distract her from her own pleasure, in fact (she's not one for mixing sex acts, she's only 69ed once and she didn't enjoy it-- not because she minds giving head, she _quite_ enjoys that, actually, as she enjoys most things she's good at, but _if_ she's giving head she wants to be able to focus, and if she's getting it she wants to relax and focus on _her_ orgasm, not someone else's…call it single-mindedness, call it selfishness, it's just the way she's wired), but she likes it, actually, the evidence of her arousal matching his doubling when he groans and it reverberates against her.

When she looks down at him his eyes are open, intent on hers. He winks, and, assuming this is the signal that he's ready to start, she eases herself off his face, the inside of her legs slick, and reaches for the condom.

* * *

He didn't last long while she was on top of him, but Anne doesn't mind. If she'd done it longer it probably would've started to hurt, given that he's the most well-endowed man she's ever been with. She rode him for the duration of Maroon 5's _[Harder to Breathe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rV8NHsmVMPE) _ and (amusingly) Britney's _[Baby One More Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-u5WLJ9Yk4) _ (a song selection based on his teenage ex, Anne hypothesizes, but who knows, she could be wrong, perhaps behind that cool, smooth exterior lurks a diehard Britney Spears fan).

They're on round two of intercourse now, and have since switched positions. Henry's on top of her, her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer with every thrust.

He leans down to kiss her (really, God help her, because she doesn't know how anyone after him is going to compete with petal-softness of _those lips_ ) snagging her bottom lip between his teeth before he slips his tongue inside her mouth.

She deepens the kiss, snakes a hand around his back, and scratches down it, lightly, and he sighs.

"Harder," he whispers in her ear, fingers interlaced in her hair, he pulls it, slowly.

"How much harder?" she asks, pressing her calf into the small of his back

"Let's just say," Henry continues, biting her earlobe, "that blood doesn't make me squeamish."

Anne rakes her fingernails down the taut muscles of his back with all the force she can muster and feels him shudder, he gasps into her neck and pulsates inside her.

She withdraws her legs from around his waist and he pulls out, hand around the condom, slides it off, pinching the top.

"Christ, I haven't come without warning like that since I was sixtee-- fuck!" he exclaims suddenly, dropping the condom into the trash can at the end of the bed, "oh, fuck, I think it broke, do you have--"

"It's not that big a deal," Anne says, grabbing the crumpled up sheet from the foot of the bed and using it to dab the sweat on her neck, her collarbone.

"What do you mean, of course it's--"

"I'm on the pill," she says, putting a hand on his face, reassuring, "relax. If it did, it's fine."

"Oh. Why'd you have me wear one, then?" he asks, sliding off the bed and grabbing his boxers before pulling them over his legs.

"STD's, hello?"

"I don't have an STD," he scoffs, finding his shirt on the floor and pulling it over his head.

"And how would I know that? I just met you."

* * *

"Right," he says, taking in the view of her.

Her hair is mussed, damp with sweat, eyes dark and shining, mouth swollen and red, a pretty flush sweeps over her face, neck, décolletage, white sheet pulled against her chest, held up with one hand.

Henry thinks he was about to ask her something, but for the life of him he can't remember what; is rapt by the image of her in his bed, tracing her fingers over her mouth as if it's tender, eyelashes fluttering as she blinks owlishly.

"Do you…um…need anything?" he asks, scratching the nape of his neck.

"Clothes," she says, tilting her head to the side.

"Clothes?"

"You ripped my dress, remember? I'll at least need to borrow a jacket, or something, before I go."

"You don't have to go," he says quickly, (too quickly, he thinks, judging by her raised eyebrows), "it's late, you shouldn't walk home alone."

"I can call a cab," she says with a shrug, "I don't mind."

"You can stay the night. If you want to, I mean."

It's not an offer he makes very often. Usually he uses the "early day tomorrow" excuse, even with girlfriends. Or the "light sleeper" excuse. Or the "I kick in my sleep" excuse.  And, if those fail, he'll smoothly compliment them into leaving: _you're too sexy, too distracting, I'll just want to fuck you all night_ , _I'll end up cuddling in the morning and won't be able to leave the bed, and I'll never get to work on time_ , etc., etc.

"Um…okay," she says, "I'll still need something to wear, though."

"Will you, though?"

"Well…yeah, I can't just walk around your apartment naked."

* * *

" _I_ think you can," he says, a wolfish grin on his face, arms crossed.

Anne rolls her eyes and says, "I'll get cold."

"I'll turn up the heat."

"Henry!"

"Fine," he says, sighing dramatically, "I'm sure there's…something," he says, turning around to face his closet, he pulls open one mirrored door, starts flipping through button-downs, "do you like flannel?"

"Not really."

"A- _ha_!" he exclaims, disappearing from view before coming back out, dragging a chest with him.

Anne gets up from his bed, wraps the sheet around her waist and sits next to him on the red Persian carpet on the floor.

The chest in front of him is gorgeous, made of a glossy, dark oak, a pomegranate carved into the wood along with little leaves adorning it.

Henry lifts the latch, opening it, revealing clothes, silk and cashmere, a rainbow of colors, just on the top.

"You can take whatever you'd like," he says, scooting backwards, "my ex left these here a few years ago. I've asked her to come pick them up a million times, but apparently they're all 'last season's'," he puts air quotes up on the last words, accompanying them with an eye roll.

"Oh?" Anne says, reaching in and pulling out what looks like a pajama top, bright purple and a buttery texture against her fingertips, "which ex is this?"

"My first girlfriend, actually," he says, his voice muffled as she slips it over her head, "the first Katherine, too."

"Was she eighteen, too?" she teases, ruffling through the clothes, hoping to find pants.

" _No_ ," he says, "but I was, when we dated. She was the older one, actually."

"By how much?" she asks, running her hand over a pink cashmere sweater, then holding it up to her face.

"Six years."

"Wow," she says, "you must have had serious game. What happened there?"

Henry shrugs, says, "she wanted kids, marriage…I didn't."

"Didn't, or don't?" Anne asks, pulling out a pair of wide-legged, silk pants and examining them.

They'll be short on her, and they don't match the top she's wearing (royal blue instead of purple) but it's fine, since she's just planning on wearing these here, anyway. She should probably look for something to wear for when she leaves tomorrow morning, so she starts to look for another outfit to lay out.

"Both," he says, "I'm too selfish for it, honestly. I don't want to take care of anyone. I like my life, I like…traveling whenever I want, wherever I want, staying out late…I don't want to tie anyone's shoes, have someone rely on me. It doesn't appeal."

"Well," she says, pulling the pants on under the sheet (she knows it's silly, since he's already seen her naked, but she'd feel awkward changing in front of him while they talk about something semi-serious), "at least you know."

* * *

"Jesus Christ," Anne says, scanning the contents of his freezer, "was your girlfriend Jabba the Hut?"

"No, why would you--"

"You have, like…forty flavors of ice cream in here."

"Yeah, so? I like ice cream," Henry says, and she can hear the pout in his voice.

"So you're telling me that she didn't buy _any_ of these?"

"No, she was always on a diet."

"So you bought cake batter flavor."

"Yes."

"And butter pecan."

"Yes."

"And chocolate peanut--"

"Yes, Anne, I bought everything in there! Will you just _pick_ something? I'm starving."

* * *

For the most part, the rest of the night consists of them talking. They exchange college stories, he tells her about the UK, she tells him about France.

Eventually she says she needs to take a shower. When he follows her, she puts a hand to his chest and says, "no, I'm worn out." He says, "that's okay, I like to watch", and she responds, "of course you do."

She lets him watch (wondering if he had it built with voyeuristic purposes in mind, given that the whole thing is glass, squarely in the middle of the bathroom, too, visible from all four clear walls), hands lingering over her skin, caressing herself as she washes more than she would if she were in there alone, and eventually says, "are you going to come in or you going to sit out there like a loser?"

So Henry joins her, and she kneels onto the marble tiles and gives him head, a thank you for earlier, enjoying the feeling of his hand in her wet hair, massaging her scalp as she swipes her tongue around the head, enjoys hearing him take God's and the Lord's name in vain, hums contentedly when he does (and he takes them _several_ times, vividly, in various forms: _Jesus, Oh my Fucking God, Jesus Fucking Christ, God, Goddamn_ …etc.).

Once that's finished, she finally picks out an outfit to wear for her walk to her sister's apartment tomorrow (his apartment was two blocks from the bar they met at, so she knows Mary's place is about a mile or so from his), and while she does she discovers a Polaroid camera in the chest the First Katherine left behind.

They take pictures with it, quite a few: smiling pictures, goofy pictures, ones of faux serious expressions, ones with them together, ones with them by themselves.

* * *

Henry wakes up the next morning, Anne asleep next to him.

He gets out of bed, carefully, not wanting to wake her.

His stomach growls-- they didn't have dinner last night, just ice cream. He figures she'll probably be hungry when she wakes up, too, so he writes her a note before he leaves to buy breakfast.

* * *

The window, which Anne opened last night for fresh air, is still ajar. A gust of wind blows through the room, but Anne is a heavy sleeper.

The note, however, folded atop the nightstand, is blown off the surface, and drifts, softly as a feather falling, to the floor, and then, with another gust, under the bed.

* * *

Anne wakes up to an empty room, sun glaring in her eyes.

She changes into the ex-girlfriend outfit, a deep crimson dress that falls to her knees, along with a matching shawl that she drapes around her shoulders, then slides on red shoes(miraculously, her and Katherine are the same shoe size, which is lucky, because it means she can wear comfortable flats for her walk, rather than the heels she wore last night).

The Polaroid camera is still on the nightstand, so she takes one last picture of herself, what she hopes is a mysterious smile, shakes it out after it leaves the slot but doesn't look at it, just places it by the lamp.

Anne picks a few out of the pile of the photographs they took last night, too, but leaves some behind.

She's not going to leave him her phone number or anything, she has too much pride for that. If he wants to leave her with not so much as cab fare, not so much as a goodbye, that's his prerogative.

Anne tells herself that she doesn't mind this, that she never even thought she was going to go home with him, at first, didn't expect it to be anything more than a one-night stand once she did.

It _had_ felt like a little bit more than that, maybe, in certain moments, but she was probably just attaching meaning to it that wasn't there, still emotional from the aftermath of watching a man she had once loved promise to love someone else forever.

So she takes her purse off the kitchen counter she left it on, places the photos atop her heels, and leaves, locking the door behind her.

* * *

Anne crosses the street and takes a left on Fountain Avenue.

By the time Henry walks down Sweetzer Avenue to Fountain, large paper bag full of almost every breakfast menu item from his favorite restaurant in hand, Anne is already six blocks to the left down Fountain, has already passed several apartment complexes she could never afford a rental in, several boutiques whose hats cost more than her current rent. She passes jacaranda trees, the wind whipping the branches and causing the flowers to drift down towards her feet; flowers the color of lilacs and the scent of honey.

Usually Anne loves them, loves the reminder that she lives someplace beautiful, but on this particular walk the sweet scent makes her dizzy, and she bats them away as they fall near her, annoyed by how the gusts of wind blow her hair around, getting in her eyes.

Had the timing been different, they may have crossed paths. If she had woken up later, he might have caught her as she left the building. Had less people ordered food before he did, they might have met on the same crosswalk.

Had the air been still, perhaps she would have read the note and stayed.

But none of these things happen.

Something else happens.

Something neither of them expected.

 

_~.....to be continued.....~_


	2. nothing gets past you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Tudor, Chairman and CEO of Plantagenet Productions (two heavy titles for one young as thirty-five years old) cuts a dashing picture across the round table, ensconced as we are in this cozy café…one of his favorites, he had said over the phone, and the baristas here do seem to know him by name. They bring him a drink before we even order.  
> 

**2016**

**Monday, 12:30 PM**

"The thing is, I needed those reports, like, _yesterday_."

"Sure," Robin says, earbuds in, trailing down to his iPhone in his front pocket, he talks into the speaker on the wire, "that sounds _very_ natural, I'm sure you're blending in well."

This isn't the first time he's teased his friend via phone call, and it probably won't be the last.

It's also not the first time he's taken non-professional calls at work, but his boss doesn't really care.

Robin Dudley works at one of the more popular used bookstores in downtown Los Angeles, sorting books that customers bring in by value in the backroom. He lied about his age when he applied for the job, used a fake ID, and they never had him fill out an I-9. They pay him cash every week.

He knows he looks older than he is (fifteen), he wears motorcycle jackets and is already 5'11, taller than most of his teachers. He has a tattoo of the phrase " _Honi soit qui mal y pense"_ written in cursive along his inner arm, all the way from his elbow to his wrist, something he has to roll over with the sleeves of the _stupid_ sweaters the private school he goes to makes him wear.

"That's really very helpful, thank you," Elizabeth snaps.

"You're welcome," he says, blowing dust off the cover of a leather-bound copy of _Alice in Wonderland,_ "by the way, did you tell your mom where you were going after school on this fine, Early-Release day?"

"She is not aware of that fact," she says crisply, apparently still trying to add years to her usual vocabulary.

"I see. Where does she _think_ you are?"

"Your present location, of course."

" _Elizabeth_ ," he groans, "what am I supposed to do if she comes in looking for you?"

"Tell her I'll be there presently," she says, and he can make out male laughter in the background.

"You sound really fake, I think you should just talk like you normally do, but--"

"Thank you for your input."

"She already hates me," Robin laments, placing _Alice_ into the box on top the table that's marked for lightly used classics.

"No, she doesn't," Elizabeth insists, voice softer than before.

"Yes, she _does_. I feel the hatred coming off of her in waves, every time I walk you home from the train."

"No, she loves that there's someone to walk-- yes, yes, yes, I'll try to get those to you straight away!"

"If she finds out I'm the one that helped you find those pictures…it's going to up the hatred factor. Like, it's going to go through the roof."

"Well, she doesn't have to know-- oh, oh my God--"

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I have to go--"

"Is that him?" he whispers, though doesn't know why-- it's not like anyone can hear him in the backroom.

"Yes, it is."

"Good luck!" he says, clicking the button on his headphones to end the call.

* * *

Henry's walking back to his office, having just finished his lunch break, bottle of Perrier in hand, but stops in his tracks when he sees a young girl, sitting in one of the chairs they leave out for guests in the hall, adjacent to his secretary's desk.

When she sees him she hangs up her phone, slides it into her purse and stands up, smiling.

He couldn't really say her age, for sure, possibly less than 18, probably 20 at the _very_ most (she's tall, up to his shoulders, and he's 6'2 himself), but she's dressed like one of his female employees might be: blue blazer, white button down blouse underneath it, tucked into a knee-length skirt with a high waist, long legs encased in pantyhose, feet in beige pumps.

She holds a folder against her chest, a blue leather purse over her shoulder.

She's tall and slender, willowy, really, has red hair, tied into a bun, pale skin, a generous mouth, an aquiline nose, a long neck, and something about her dark brown eyes, seems…familiar to him, though he can't quite place it. Something about her in general seems familiar, actually.

"Hello?" he says, squinting at her.

"Hello," she says, her voice coming out squeaky, "I'm--"

He holds a hand up, looks over at his secretary's desk, which is empty.

"Has anyone helped you?" he asks.

"Helped me…?"

"Where is she?" he mutters, putting a hand in his pocket.

"Your…secretary?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Um…" the girl checks the watch on her wrist, then says, "lunch, maybe?"

"She's supposed to have someone cover her when she's at lunch," he says, rolling his eyes, "I swear…"

The girl continues to stand there, smiling expectantly, eyes bright.

"Do we have an appointment?" Henry asks.

"Yes," she says, "I was supposed to be here for the interview."

"Oh. What position?"

"The internship for script reading," she says.

* * *

"No one told me," he says, pulling an iPhone out of his pocket, he scrolls through it, squinting, "but given the lack of competence in my secretary, I guess that's not really surprising… _who_ told you to come see me?"

"Someone on the phone, here, I don't really remember--"

"Well," he says, sliding his phone into the front pocket of his suit jacket, "I was going to fire her anyway."

"Oh my God, please don't!" she blurts out, and he raises and eyebrow at her.

"I mean…" Elizabeth trails off, feels her cheeks warm, embarrassed by her outburst, she scrambles to save face, "I would just feel really bad if you fired her because of, me, and, um…I mean, I don't want that on my conscience? Everyone makes mistakes, right?"

Henry Tudor (she can't think of him as anything less than first and last name, she just _can't_ , he's so tall, so handsome, _so_ imposing, he's been on the cover of magazines, for God's sake, she almost had a heart attack when she saw him walking towards her) gives a small smile and says, "Alright, I won't fire her. For this. I'll wait for the next inevitable screw-up."

"I'm just surprised," he continues, walking ahead of her, he opens one of the dark green doors in a double set and holds it open for her, and she hurries in, "they don't usually have me interview for these kinds of positions…is your dad someone important, or something?"

Elizabeth almost stumbles (she's not used to wearing heels, and also…well, that question startled her, honestly), and she stammers, "I…um…not--"

"Oh, I apologize," he says, adjusting his tie before taking a seat at this office chair, "that was a sexist assumption, no? Just my default, since _my_ dad was. Your mom could be the breadwinner, for all I know. Is _she_ important?"

"Um…she's the head of the costume departments for a lot of TV shows and movies?" Elizabeth says, searching his office for a chair.

"Interesting," he says, folding his hands together, "has she worked on any of ours?"

"Yes, I believe she has."

There's an armchair in the corner, next to a window that takes up an entire wall and overlooks downtown LA, but she should probably be sitting across from him.

She spots a row of mahogany chairs and pulls one out, scanning the row of pictures on the wall they're against: Henry Tudor shaking hands with Barack Obama, Henry Tudor shaking hands with the Pope, a degree that says he graduated _magna cum laude_ from Oxford University…

Elizabeth puts her folder in her purse and carries a chair over to his desk, setting it there and taking a seat, she sets her purse on the floor, retrieves the folder and settles it on her lap, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

"You'll have to forgive me, I haven't done an interview in a while, I may be rusty," he says, twisting the cap of his Perrier off, he raises it towards his mouth then stops, setting it down, "oh, sorry, did you want any, I have glasses--"

"Oh, no. Thank you, though."

His gaze flicks to her lap, and he points to the folder and says, "I assume you'd like to show me whatever's in there?"

"Oh! Yes," she says, passing him the folder over his desk, a manila, accordion one separated into sections, each one with its own tab and label.

"Very organized," he says, sliding a sheet of paper out, he reads it, "Elizabeth…Boleyn?"

"Yes," she says, "that's me."

"And that's me," he says with a smile, still reading, tapping at the plaque on his desk.

"You've worked on quite a few sets, Miss Boleyn," he says, setting her resume down, "impressive."

"I don't know how impressive it is," she says with a shrug, "I mean, I had an in, you know…my mom."

"You're supposed to talk yourself up at interviews, darling," he says, tapping his nose twice, winking, and smiling, blue eyes warm, sliding out more papers from another section, "and if I say you're impressive, it means you are."

"Sorry."

"Don’t apologize. And, for the record, as far as the entertainment industry goes, any bloke that scores so much as a single gig did so because of some sort of 'in', from PA's to background actors, principals to directors, producers to cameramen…. there's nothing wrong with it. It's all about how you use it, how you can mold that 'in' to your advantage…the people that manage to do that tend to be the ones that succeed, nine times out of ten," he says, reading one of the newspaper clippings she included, "you're a good writer, too. This is from…" he squints, his index on the bottom of the page, "what publication?"

"My school newspaper."

"College?"

"Ah, no, this is for a high school internship?" she says, fidgeting in her seat, folding her hands.

"Oh… _how_ old are you?"

"Sixteen," Elizabeth lies, tugging on her skirt, the first thing that comes to mind.

"You're poised for your age. Though, I think…usually we hire seventeen and above for that, but I can probably bend the rules just this once, given that you're such a qualified candidate--"

"I lied," she blurts out, clasping her hands around her neck, she squeezes her eyes shut, "I lied, I'm thirteen, I'm sorry."

" _Thirteen_? Wow. Well…" Henry Tudor trails off, brow furrowing, "I don't think that'd even be in compliance with labor laws, for an internship. Perhaps you can give me your phone number, and I can call in a few years if another position opens, I really don't see what I can do in this--"

"I think you're my dad."

* * *

"I…" Henry shakes his head, "I _beg_ your pardon?"

Elizabeth ( _if that is her real name_ , he's beginning to doubt the validity of it) looks down at her lap, leans down and pulls her purse from the floor.

"Um…" she starts, hands shaking, she pulls out a small manila envelope, "I, I found these pictures, that were dated, and I couldn't really place you, because, you know, you've aged--"

Her eyes widen, noting his thunderous expression, no doubt, and she backpedals, "I mean, you've aged really, _really_ well, of course, but it's been over a decade, so you _have_ aged, and I scanned them, I used a facial recognition software to--"

Henry laughs, puts a hand over his mouth, and she stops talking, envelope still in her hand.

"Brandon put you up to this," he says, placing his elbow on his desk, he rests his face on his hand, "right?"

"Who's Brandon?" she asks, brow furrowing.

_Oh, she's good_.

He should've known, really. This has Charles Brandon written all over it.

Brandon, one of his closest friends, his roommate in college, did something similar to this on his 30th birthday party. He hired some blonde actress/model to play a former one-night stand that Henry 'forgot', screaming at him that he had knocked her up, that he owed her child support. Some _great_ idea Brandon had gotten after watching too many episodes of Punk'd. Everyone had jumped out behind the bar, blowing noise-makers and shouted 'surprise', and the actress had stopped screaming and started laughing, instead.

"Let me guess," he says, taking a swig of sparkling water, "he posted an ad on Craigslist? 'Unique Opportunity for 18-To-Look-Younger Actress, Redhead'? 'Looks like this guy,' my photo attached in the ad," he continues, scanning her face (Brandon _really_ lucked out with this casting call, she _does_ actually look quite a bit like him, they have similar noses, hair color, skin tone), "you clicked on it, were relieved it wasn't for porn," (she visibly startles at this), "and thought…sure, why not?"

"I, I don't…" the girl shakes her head, "I'm not an actress, I--"

"I can't believe he actually gave you props," he says, pushing the file away from him towards her, crossing his arms, " _very_ thorough of him."

"I don’t know anyone named Brandon," she insists again, " _really_ , I _found_ these, and--"

"Look, sweetheart," he interrupts, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket, "if there's one thing I hate, it's having my time wasted. And I have a _real_ appointment on the books coming up, so if you don't mind," he says, nodding his head towards the door and waving his hand, "I'd like you to leave now."

"I'm…"

She plays with the folder in her lap, brow furrowed, and takes a deep breath, in and out.

"Performance anxiety?" Henry inquires, rolling his chair over to his computer and starting it up.

"I'm _not_ an actress!"

"Look," he says again, curtly this time, frustration mounting, "I don't know _wha_ t it is you want--"

"I want you to look at these," she says, holding the envelope out, hand trembling, "please."

"What, did he not pay you upfront or something?"

"No one paid--"

"Fine," he says, opens a desk drawer, removes his wallet from it, shaking his head, he fishes out a few hundred dollar bills and slides them over to her.

She still hasn't left, so he looks up from the screen and sees her crying, sniffling, wiping the tears with the back of her hand.

"What are you, a method actor?"

She shakes her head, puts the folder back into her purse, her purse back onto her lap, throws the envelope onto his desk, and grabs the cash.

_Well, that must've been it_. But he feels a little bad, perhaps her tears aren't of the crocodile variety. She must be having a bad time at auditions if she's reduced to doing gigs like this, he figures.

"You have a headshot? I can pass it around to some casting directors, if that's what you want," he says, pulling up and Excel spreadsheet, "you have a good look, I'm sure you can get a guest spot on a Disney Channel show or something."

Elizabeth, _or whatever her name is_ , shoulders her bag and gets up from her chair and strides out the door, head held high.

* * *

**Monday, 1:45 PM**

Anne puts her key in the door to her apartment, paper bag of craft service food hoisted in her arms, and opens it, kicking it shut with her foot once she's in the foyer.

"Crafty was amazing today," she calls out, setting the bag on the floor and unzipping her jacket, "I was working on 'Bones', did I tell you? They always have the best stuff," she continues, placing her jacket on the hook and turning to lock the door, placing the chain over it.

"Miranda had it handled, so I left early," she says, walking into the kitchen and dropping the bag on the counter, "Elizabeth, are you there? Your friend texted me, said you were heading home--"

Anne walks into the living room and finds Elizabeth, lying on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest, hand over her mouth, sobbing silently, her cheeks dotted with red, tears coursing down her face.

"Elizabeth, what's wrong?" she asks, she sits on the couch and moves Elizabeth into her arms, stroking her hair, "honey, shh, what _happened_?"

Elizabeth shakes her head, gasps, whimpers, "Mommy…"

That ups Anne's concern, though of course it was already spiked before. Elizabeth hasn't called her that in years.

"Is it that Dudley kid? I swear to God I'm gonna kick his ass, he should be hanging out with people his own age anyway--"

"We're the same age, Mom--"

"Thirteen and fifteen are _not_ the same age, not by a long shot--"

"It's not about him, okay?"

"Okay," Anne says slowly, carefully, laying on a kiss atop head, "what's it about, then?"

"He didn’t like me," she says, gulping, hiccuping, "he didn't believe me…I did everything wrong, I had a plan…"

" _Who_ didn't like you?"

"You're gonna be mad," Elizabeth says, sniffling, wiping at her nose.

"I won't be mad," Anne promises, holding her closer, "I'm only mad at whoever hurt you. Tell me."

* * *

**Tuesday, 7:00 AM**

"No, Harrison, we never promised you those! Harrison, please, I think I'd _know_ if we promised those! Yes, yes I do know-- look, have you called Chapuys yet? Chapuys is really more the authority on subtitles here, he can give you more details on the matter-- well, then that's a grievous mistake, call my secretary and she'll give you the number straightaway."

Jessica walks over from her desk and hands Henry his cup of coffee. He takes it and mouths, "thank you", trying to make out what Harrison is saying on the other end.

He takes a sip and wrinkles his nose before walking over and setting it back on her desk. It tastes burnt, and there's no milk in it. The directions for how he takes his coffee are literally laminated and in the top drawer of her desk, and yet, somehow…somehow he hasn't gotten it how he wants it since he's hired her. There was a reason… _why_ he hasn't fired her yet? He can't recall.  

"Sir, there's someone in--"

Henry waves a hand at her and mutters, "not now," before opening the door to his office.

"I've been telling you that. Look, why don't I…"

Henry almost drops his phone, so stunned is he to see the person that's sitting in his chair.

For a second he thinks he's dreaming.

He used to dream about her, a lot more frequently. For the first two years after their night together, he dreamed about her at least every week. Most of the dreams didn’t even have sex in them.

Usually she was sitting on a park bench, wearing a coat, during the day. Henry would feel a chill on his skin, and he would walk over to her. She would say "I have something important to tell you," and he would ask what it was.

She'd never say what it was.

Or, if she ever did, he never woke up remembering it.

She's wearing an amber dress, sitting behind _his_ desk, in _his_ chair, with confidence, as if it was hers.

It's like a vivid memory come back, if that memory had gotten its hair cropped to just below its shoulders instead of the small of its back, if that memory traded a face full of makeup for a completely bare one, or if that memory had replaced the gold delicate chain of the 'B' necklace with one made of pearls, but kept the trinket the same.

"Yes. Yes," Henry says, "look, Harrison, I'm going to have to call you back."

* * *

"I remember you," Henry says, smiling, putting his phone in his pocket.

"Do you?" Anne asks, tracing a finger over a pile of papers on his desk.

He, infuriatingly, looks much the same as he did fourteen years ago.

He's tall, wearing a grey suit of high quality, his tie a bright royal blue.

There's no grey in his hair, though its darkened somewhat, it's retained its redness. No grey in his beard, considering he doesn't have one anymore. His face is clean-shaven, the lines on it sharper, perhaps. There are a few more laugh lines around the corners of his eyes.

He's lost weight, but not attractiveness. His shoulders are still broad, waist maybe a bit more narrow. It's mainly only his face where she can see the weight loss. Not that he ever _needed_ to lose weight, but he has, and she notices.

"How did you get in here? No one's allowed--"

"Oh," she says lazily, holding her left hand up, "I borrowed my sister's wedding ring. Told your secretary I was your poor, estranged wife, that you owed years of alimony payments, cried a little bit…she folded, even though before she said no one, no one ever, ever, _ever_ was allowed in here without your say-so. Not even your girlfriend, apparently-- Jen, was it?"

"Jane."

"Mmm…this her?" she asks, holding up a picture in a silver frame.

Anne had taken note of his office before he came in. There's a larger photo of a beautiful woman sitting in a field of sunflowers, a little boy with red-gold hair in her lap, only a few shades redder than hers, that she assumes is Henry and his mother.

This one is small, just a blue-eyed, blonde girl with a huge, Miss America smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Yes, what are you--"

"You should fire her," Anne says, putting the picture frame down, "very unprofessional, to let me in like that."

"I've been meaning to. Your hair is shorter," he says, crossing his arms, head tilted to the side.

"Wow," she says dryly, fingers closing over the paperweight that's resting atop his desk, " _nothing_ gets past you."

"Well, _you_ don't sound pleased to see me…and yet you went to the trouble of breaking into my office."

Anne doesn't look at him, pointedly, examining the paperweight, instead. It's pretty, the shape of an apple (it even has a little green 'leaf' atop it), a fire-engine red, and made of glass or crystal, maybe. Like something one might give a teacher.

"Who gave you this?" she asks.

"A colleague."

" _Mmm_ ," she says again, rolling it over to her other hand, "expensive, no?"

"Yeah, he was probably trying to suck up."

Anne gets up from his chair, taking the paperweight with her, and sweeps her arm towards the chair, grandly, as if gesturing for him to sit down.

She walks over to the window, takes in the skyline, the cars below her that look like ants (his office is on the fortieth floor) before turning around to face the wall with the bookshelves.

Anne throws the paperweight against one of the shelves, closing her eyes when she hears the satisfying sound of glass shattering.

* * *

"What the _fuck_?!" he yells.

Henry watches, dumbfounded, as Anne continues what seems to be a very calm rampage, expression blank as she strides over to his bookshelf, deftly sidestepping the pile of red shards on his floor, pulls one first edition book from the shelf, tosses it to the ground, then another.

"You _cannot_ be mad at me," he shouts, throwing his briefcase onto the floor before running over to shelf, "for one-night standing you over a decade ago!"

Anne ignores him, even as he stands right next to her, humming contentedly as she throws more books off the shelves and onto the floor.

"Especially when," he snaps, grabbing one of her shoulders before she furiously shrugs it off, "you were the one that did that to _me_ , if anything."

"I'm sorry," she says, shaking her head, suddenly, she turns to him, hand on a single hip, " _what_?"

"It's not like you left your number or anything. I would've called, for the record, though now I'm glad I didn't, because it looks like it probably would've ended in me getting my CAR KEYED!" he finishes the sentence with a shout, gesturing to the mess around him furiously.

* * *

"Well," Anne says coolly, tilting her head to the side, "you make my daughter cry, I wreck your property. Kind of how that works."

"Your _daughter_ ," Henry asks, brow furrowed, "you have a daughter? Are you married?"

Anne shakes her head, laughing, because for someone to be this stupid is truly _beyond belief_.

"No," she says shortly, walking back over to his chair, she picks up her clutch and slings the chain around her shoulder, "no, I'm not married."

"Hard to imagine. Who _wouldn't_ want to put a ring on Miss Temper Tantrum?" he drawls, picking up one of the books from the floor and setting it on a shelf.

While his back is turned, Anne spots the manila envelope on his desk. The one that's missing from _her_ desk drawer, the one with the lock, the one that Elizabeth told her she took.

"You didn't even look," she says, softly, picking it up.

"What?"

"This is mine," she says, holding it up.

"No it's _not_ ," he says, crossing his arms, "you're not destroying my property _and_ stealing from me. I do have my limits, you know."

" _Now_ you want to look?"

" _What_?"

She puts it back down on his desk, wanting to get out of here more than anything at this point. She has other pictures. It doesn't matter, maybe he'll never look. He doesn't deserve to know, his interaction with Elizabeth proves it to her, and his inability to connect the dots this far in confirms it, too.

"Here," she says, opening her clutch, taking out the cash Elizabeth gave her and setting it atop the envelope, "you gave this to her by mistake."

"Why are you--

"Goodbye, Henry," Anne interrupts, "that _is_ what you say, by the way, before you leave a conversation. Before you leave someone you've talked to, even before you leave someone you've fucked. _No_ t the reason I attempted to trash your office, but…that's what you say. _Goodbye_."

* * *

She's out of his office door before he can get a last word in.

_Good riddance_.

He's a little fuzzy this morning, since he hit the booze pretty hard last night. The cash doesn't make sense to him, he brushes it off the envelope before opening it.

The first photo is a Polaroid of him, kissing Anne's cheek, on the bed he had at his old West Hollywood apartment, the one he put on the market years ago.

There's another Polaroid of him, of him, of him, they're dated on the back captioned 'December 2002, Henry Tudor, Los Angeles', and then there's a regular picture, just of Anne, wearing a yellow sundress, hand over her swollen belly, a woman her age touching it and beaming.

The back reads 'May 2003, Mary, New York'.

He flips through the photos, faster, he's missing something, there's a magazine clipping, an interview he did for _Vanity Fair_ a few years ago, and the last photo is of a baby in a bassinet, her face pretty and plump, the top of her head covered in downy, reddish-gold hair, captioned, 'Elizabeth, September 2003, New York.'

_Elizabeth, September 2003._

_Henry, December 2002._

_Elizabeth._

_Henry._

_Elizabeth._

> _"Elizabeth…Boleyn?_
> 
> _"Yes, that's me."_
> 
> _"I think you're my dad."_

_Holy shit_.

* * *

"Jessica!" Henry shouts, throwing the doors open and running out, "where did she go?"

"Your wife?" she asks, crossing her arms.

"Your _what_?"

Henry looks to the left, the origin of the shrill voice, Jane, wearing a light pink dress, hand on her hips, face darkening in fury.

"No," he snaps to his secretary, " _not_ my wife, she played you like a fucking fiddle and you're fired, by the way, but _where_ _is_ she?"

"She asked for the restroom," Jessica stutters, "I think she went that--"

Henry runs the direction she's pointing, and hears Jane, the click-clack of her stilettos on the floor behind him, "Henry! What's going _on_?!"

"Not now, Jane!" he barks, spotting Anne leaving the bathroom, she rubs her hands together and looks up at him, startled, then turns her heel immediately, walks, at a hurried pace, towards the elevator.

"Anne! _Anne_!" he shouts, "do _not_ walk away from me!"

But she is, hurrying, she's in boots but they're barely raised, almost flat, and she's practically running now, the amber skirt of her dress rippling behind her, he catches up to her, only barely, out of breath as she waits at the elevator on the far right, the one with the 'down' arrow besides it lit.

He walks around her, stands in front of the elevator she's waiting for, a group of his employees, including Chapuys, stand in front of the other one, talking amongst themselves in hushed tones.

* * *

"Please take this," Henry Tudor says, handing over a few bills (Chapuys can't make out what kind), "please, it's the least I can--"

"We don't need your money," snaps a pretty brunette woman, late-twenties to early thirties if he had to guess, her arms crossed, face flushed, gaze locked on the elevator doors in front of her.

"Then why did she take it?" he asks.

She turns to him, slow as honey, with a glare that would rival Medusa's and says, in a clipped, even tone, "You know what? You can go _fuck_ yourself," before pushing past him, hitting her shoulder against his, and walking into the elevator, and Chapuys almost _faints_ , because no one, and he means _no one_ , tells Henry Tudor to go fuck himself. It just doesn't happen.

_He's_ certainly wanted to himself, once or twice.

But she just did, and she looked him right in the eyes as she did so, too, and his boss darts into the elevator and yells for everyone else in it to get out.

"You don't have to listen to him," the woman says, loudly, "he owns the company, not the elevator-- none of you have to… _sheep_!" she yells accusingly as the all filter out, leaving her and Mr. Tudor alone before the doors of the elevator shut.

This is, quite possibly, the most exciting thing that has ever happened in this building since Chapuys has started working here.

"That woman is braver than a lion," he observes, laughing in shock, to resounding nods from his co-workers.

* * *

"So when you said 'my daughter', what you meant was--"

"' _My_ daughter.' I wrote 'unknown' on the line of her birth certificate that asked for her father's name," she says.

"But you _did_ know."

Anne shrugs, arms crossed, before the elevator dings on the next floor and opens to a crowd of people waiting, but Henry yells, "use the next!" and presses the 'close' button.

"You going to do that on every floor? This is going to be a long ride--"

"I don’t care how long of a ride it is, I can't _fucking_ believe you, you _kept_ this for--"

"You said you didn't want kids!" she yells, "why would I tell you?"

"I was 24! Of course I said I didn't want--"

"And I was 21, but you still said what you said."

Henry turns away from her, lets out a sigh, runs his hand over his face, and presses the 'close' button as soon as the elevator dings.

The stark contrast between _this_  moment and the last time they were in an elevator together is not lost on him.

"21?" he remarks, flippant, "Christ, you were barely legal drinking age, yet there you were, giving me lip for dating a teenager!"

"A 24-year-old man dating an 18-year-old girl? You're damn-- please," she says, when the doors open again, to the crowd standing outside, "come in."

" _Don't_ ," he snaps, "listen to her, she's…" Henry trails off, loops his index around in circles near his temple, the 'crazy' sign, as she huffs indignantly, the doors jam midway through their closing.

"What's happening?" she demands, waving a hand in between the empty gap.

"It…you're not supposed to press the close button," he admits, "it gets--"

"Oh my _God_! What, I'm stuck with you in the world's slowest elevator?"

"It's _historic_ ," he snaps, "and it'll move eventually."

"Great… _anyway_ ," she continues, shaking her head, "you're damn right I gave you lip, you're lucky that's _all_ I gave you. Tell me, did you even wait till she graduated high school, or did you just pick her up in a park while she was wearing her private school uniform, _a la_ Jerry Seinfeld?"

" _Excuse_ me, _she_ was seventeen and Seinfeld _thirty-nine_ when that happened, and _no_ , I did not, she was in college, and I _told_ you she told _me_ she was twenty-one--"

"Well, I hope you checked ID's after that!" Anne yells as the doors finally shut and the elevator lurches downwards.

"I _did_!" he shouts.

" _Good_!"

"I don't date teenagers," he says, indignant, crossing his arms, he stops facing her and faces the doors instead.

"What do you want, a medal?"

"Though I've certainly had offers."

"Good for you," she says.

"You didn't tell me," he reiterates, "I had a daughter, because I said I didn't want kids, _once_ , what, you thought that rescinded my right to know?"

"Not just once," Anne says, sighing in disbelief as the doors open to the next floor with no waiting employees on the other end, "you've said the same thing more recently."

" _What_ are you talking about, 'more recently', Christ, we haven't exchanged so much as a word since 2002--"

" _Vanity Fair_ interview, 2013. Lizzie was eleven."

"What?"

"Then, before that, _New York Magazine_ , 2011. She was eight."

Henry rubs him temples, face worried in such consternation that he doesn't even need to ask the people at the next floor to take the next elevator, they jump back as if they've been burned upon seeing him.

"Stop saying… _numbers_ \--"

" _No_ , you _asked_ , these are the answers," Anne says curtly, ticking off her ring finger (index was _Vanity Fair_ , middle was _New York_ ), " _Daily Mail_ , 2010, she was six, I remember because it was right before her birthday, _The Guardian,_ 2007, she was four. British edition of _Vogue_ ," she says, with a giggle, "sorry, _Vogue_ was 2005. She was two."

"What, you memorized the dates of my interviews--"

"Yes," she says with a nod, "I did, actually."

" _Why_?"

"So that I could count every time you said you didn't want kids, or to settle down. So that _if_ I _ever_ got the urge to try to find you, I wouldn't. Unless Elizabeth asked. And she didn't."

"NO!" he shouts at the next group of people clustered around the elevator when the door opens, clenching one of his fists, "this is occupied, I'm not hitting the close button, just wait until we…just _wait_."

Henry closes his eyes, slowly, and rubs them as he says, "I thought you said you were on the pill."

"I was."

"We used condoms."

"Yeah, and at least one _broke_."

"But still, the pill--"

"0.1% chance of failure, even if taken correctly. How do you have sex and not know that," she snaps, rolling her eyes, " _honestly_."

"I have a daughter."

"Yes."

"And I," he puts his hands over his face and groans, folds them into fists that he uses to hold his forehead, "oh my _God_ , I told her she was relieved it wasn't porn…"

"You _what_?"

"Nothing, I…what does this _mean_?" he asks, suddenly thinking like the lawyer he once was: this means documents, lots of them, this means back-payments on child support, over a decade's worth of them…

"It means you're her biological father," Anne says with a shrug, "you don't have to be anything else."

"Her what?"

"'Bio-'"

"Don't call me that."

"That's…what you are…"

"It makes me sound like a frog or something," Henry says indignantly, crossing his arms.

"What?"

"' _Biological_ '? Really?"

"Well, if the flipper fits," she says, deadpan.

" _Excuse_ me?"

"I didn't _exactly_ turn into a princess when we kissed," Anne says, voice dripping with scorn.

"I didn't _exactly_ hear you complaining," Henry counters, fidgeting with the tie around his neck, "and that doesn't even make any sense, by the way."

"What?"

"It's the _Frog Prince_. The _frog_ turns into a _prince_. The princess kisses the frog. So in that example, _you'd_ be the frog," Henry explains smugly, smirking when he ties off his explanation.

"I am _not_ the frog! _You're_ the fucking frog!"

* * *

"This," says the tour guide, leading a group of tourists along the marble floors, "is the lobby of Plantagenet Productions. It's been remodeled only twice since 1920, and the renovations are, for the most part, minor. Most of the original architecture was kept intact."

"Luckily for us," she continues, "we have elevator access on this tour, usually only granted to top executives and important guests, so let's make our way, shall we?"

"Hey," asks a teenage girl, her arms linked with two of her girlfriends, "does Henry Tudor use these elevators?"

"He does!" the tour guide responds, pressing the key card against the reader under the up and down arrows, "he's usually not out and about, but if we're lucky we just might catch a glance of the illustrious, elusive CEO of--"

" _I'm_ not the fucking frog!" a red-faced Henry Tudor snaps to a younger woman as soon as the elevators ding open onto the lobby.

The group gapes at him.

"What," he asks, walking behind the dark-haired woman, who the crowd of tourists part easily for, as if she's Moses walking across the Red Sea, "is _your_ _problem_?"

It's not really clear whether he's addressing the group or the woman, who strides across the lobby and steps into the revolving glass door as Henry Tudor pounds his fist against the automatic single glass door on the side, rushing to exit as if trying to beat her outside.

* * *

"Patrick, are you in-- wonderful. I need you to pull out of the garage and onto Elm. Follow the red Toyota Prius, it hasn't pulled out yet, turn signal's still on, traffic here is terrible as usual, so hopefully…yes, let me know when you're…wow, that was fast. Okay, so it's parked just before the light on Elm and Manor…yes, it has a vanity plate, Q-U-E-E-N-E-L. Do you see it? Perfect. Follow it, and let me know where it goes. It's important. Thank you, Patrick."

* * *

**Tuesday Night**

Henry's been having trouble concentrating on anything work-related ( _Who_ sets up appointments for interviews to hire a new secretary when you've fired the last one? It can't be the _former_ secretary, can it? The prospect seemed unnecessarily cruel, and frankly Henry thinks he's been unnecessarily cruel one time too many this week. Anyway, those questions he's already yielded to his assistant, who promised to take care of it, so he supposes _that_ was the answer.) since Anne left.

_Anne Boleyn_ , he learns, eyes racing to keep up with the mass of text on his computer screen, _obviously_ , since her… _his_ daughter introduced herself as Elizabeth Boleyn, what else would her last name be? She's unmarried, like she said.

He flicks through her Facebook profile, finds that the album titled 'Elizabeth' is so full of photos he could spend _years_ sitting here, so he bookmarks it for later.

Henry grabs the folder, sitting at his elbow, and empties it for what feels like the hundredth time in this last hour alone: the _Vanity Fair_ article she mentioned slips out, and he smooths it out onto his desk (normally he'd put his paperweight over it, but, _well_ ….obviously _that's_ not an option anymore) before getting up from his chair and pouring himself a glass of Scotch.

* * *

 

> _Vanity Fair_ , October 2013
> 
> Henry Tudor, Chairman and CEO of Plantagenet Productions (two heavy titles for one young as thirty-five years old) cuts a dashing picture across the round table, ensconced as we are in this cozy café…one of his favorites, he had said over the phone, and the baristas here do seem to know him by name. They bring him a drink before we even order.
> 
> " _Café au lait_ for Mr. Tudor…"
> 
> "Rumor has it you're one of the most eligible bachelors out there. Can you confirm this?"
> 
> " _One_ of?" he asks cheekily, with the dazzling York smile, (almost identical to the late former Prime Minister Edward York, when you put pictures of the two of them up together, the resemblance between grandfather and grandson is _truly_ uncanny), " _why_ , are _you_ interested?"
> 
> I laugh, show him my left hand, and say, "Not quite."
> 
> His gasp of delight equals the reactions I've received only from the women I've shown the engagement ring to (before this, of course), and he asks, "May I?" before examining it.
> 
> "Congratulations. It's beautiful," he says, "it reminds me of my grandmother's, actually."
> 
> "Woodville or Beaufort?"
> 
> "The incomparable Elizabeth Woodville…her engagement ring is quite similar. It's inlaid with pearls, and emeralds. For the York rose."
> 
> "She still wears it?"
> 
> "Of course, every time I see her. That and her wedding band. He was her one true love, after all."
> 
> Indeed, the love story of film star Elizabeth Woodville and politician Edward York has captured the hearts and minds of many over the years. Production companies everywhere have been nipping at the bud to portray the romance on the silver screen, but Woodville has, of yet, refused to sell her life rights to anyone.
> 
> "And you? Do you have a true love?"
> 
> "Oh, gosh," Tudor laughs, " _no_. Back to your original question…while I _am_ a bachelor, I'm not really certain I'm all that … _eligible_."
> 
> "Meaning?"
> 
> "Meaning I don't have much desire to settle down at this point."
> 
> "And in the future?"
> 
> "Who knows, but I can't see it myself. I like being independent, unencumbered."
> 
> "So, no children? What about the Tudor Dynasty?"
> 
> "God, well, I think my sister Mary and her husband Charles, have got that one on lock…they have quite the brood already. And of course there's my sister Margaret, and her husband, the Scottish bloke--"
> 
> "'The Scottish bloke?' You don't know his name?"
> 
> "Well, off the record…actually, you know what, f*** it, on the record, I don't care if he knows…he called me the 'Plantagenet prince-brat' in his last interview, so he can consider this payback. But anyway…they have quite a few little Tudors themselves. _I'm_ certainly not needed to pick up the slack."
> 
> "And you have no desire to…'pick up the slack', as you say?"
> 
> "No," he says, with a shrug, taking a careful sip of his drink (the foam atop has been, prettily, decorated with a rose-- the Tudor rose, perhaps?), "none whatsoever."

* * *

**Wednesday, 1:00 AM**

"Your phone went off," Mary Tudor yells, her feet resting on a pile of satin pillows.

"Why didn't you answer it?" Charles Brandon calls out from the bathroom, rinsing the mouthwash he just spit out down the drain.

"Why didn't I answer _your_ phone? Because I'm not your fucking secretary, that's why," she snaps, grabbing a tub of cocoa butter from the nightstand and rubbing it into her wrists.

"No," Brandon says cheerily, settling into bed under the covers next to her and kissing her cheek, "you're my fucking wife."

"Well, if you don't start putting that on silent at night like I asked, I'm _going_ to be a young and beautiful divorcee," she says, continuing to rub the lotion into her skin.

"Promises, promises," he says, checking his phone, "oh, it was Henry…he left a voicemail."

"Henry doesn't leave voicemails," she says, moving the mass of auburn curls over her right shoulder and down to her back so that she can apply the cocoa butter there, too, "he says they're a 'relic of--"

"'A relic of the unimportant and the ignored', yeah, I know," Brandon says, "which _means_ ," he continues, pressing the speakerphone button, "that _this_ should be interesting."

> "I am just calling, to say fuck you, fuck you very much, Brandon, _fuck_ you and your stupid…fucking… _pranks_ …"

Henry's words in the voicemail slur together, Brandon can practically _smell_ the booze on his breath through his phone, and Mary giggles.

> "I've slept with a lot of…a LOT of women, and I'm…I'm the pull-out king…"

"Oh, _ew_!" Mary squeals, putting her fingers in her ears.

> "D'you know how many pregnancy scares I've had? Zero. _Zéro_. _Null_! _Cero_. That's none, in…four different languages. _Ha_. And I was, I was _very_ confident about this, _too_ confident, actually, and then there's this woman at a bar, saying she's had my baby and I think, of course, bound to happen sooner or later, it was too good to be true…but then, she's an actor! It's not real! And you, you know what? That made me think that I was _invincible_. So much so that I didn't _believe_ the real thing, when she shows up, years after your stupid goddamn prank, even for a second…had _no_ doubts…even though she looked exactly like me…and I was an ASS."
> 
>  *hiccup* 
> 
> "I was an ass, an asshole to her, and I'm blaming you…for this…a thousand percent, I am blaming _you_ , and I _just_ thought you should know. That this is…your fault. Not I's. Not mine. Yours. And I'm…I'm gonna make this right, I don't know how…but…" 
> 
> *clicking noises in the background* 
> 
> "I'm just gonna, you know, I'm just gonna show up, and I'm going to be an upstanding…gentleman, to make up for me being a dick, and…I should probably throw up first, though. So…bye. You're a dick, and _bye_."

* * *

**Wednesday**

"I can't believe you haven't hemmed this yet," Melody says, tugging the bottom of Elizabeth's blue plaid skirt (identical to hers in everything but length, required of their school uniform), "it's a travesty."

"Please stop touching my clothes," Elizabeth says, pulling it back from her friend's hand, "and 'travesty' is a bit much, no?"

"The SAT vocabulary shower curtain my parents bought for me says otherwise," Melody counters, hugging a pile of books to her chest.

"It really is, though," Viola chimes in, sighing, "you have the longest legs in the world. And I _know_ Anne knows how to hem a skirt."

"Ew," Elizabeth says, wrinkling her nose, "don't call her that."

"That's what she asks to be called! And she gets _all_ bent out of shape if you call her Miss Boleyn. And she got _all huffy_ when my parents made the grave mistake of calling her Mrs. Boleyn, so…"

They've been standing on the steps outside the school for the past five minutes since school was let out, unashamedly snooping on the parents that are pulling in the parking lot for parent-teacher conference day: who is bringing their new spouse, who is wearing the worst outfits, that sort of thing.

Viola, Melody, and Karan (yes, spelled like _that,_ as in 'Donna Karan', much to her chagrin, of course) are also assessing the availability and date ability of the boys standing in a group across the green, something Elizabeth does not partake in. One reason for this is that her mother has made the executive decision that thirteen is too young to date. Another is that her friends are older than she is, by one or two years, since Elizabeth skipped a grade and is in eighth rather than seventh-- she was twelve turning thirteen during September this year, right after the cut-off date. She tested out.

Golden Age Academy is a K-12 school, so she interacts with older students a lot.

Elizabeth squints against the sun. She can make out a tall figure, male, in the distance, leaning against a Lincoln Town Car. She can't really make out his features, though.

She shrugs, and turns back to her group of friends.

"And then _he_ was like, Martha, if you keep ordering bottled Evian by the case every week, we are _going_ to end up drinking it in a tiny studio in East Los Angeles instead of our house, and-- oh my God. _Hello_ , GQ," Melody says, with a nod, "hottie in a suit, 2'o'clock."

They all turn in the direction of where she's looking and gape at the man standing near the curb, hands in pockets, except for Elizabeth, who turns and then turns back immediately, reeling when she recognizes him.

"Whose dad is _that_?" Viola asks.

"I would definitely remember him if he was someone's dad," Melody says, " _look_ at him. God."

"Michelangelo just called," Karan quips, "he wants to redo the David."

"I'm suddenly feeling _very_  '[Colors](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGulAZnnTKA)' right now," Melody says, tilting her head to the side, "I mean, I _would_. Wouldn't _you_ , Elizabeth?"

" _Gross_ ," she snaps, squeezing her arms against her side, squeezing her eyes shut, "no, I know him, he's…a relative."

"Oh," Melody says, "my bad, sorry. Why's he here?"

"I don't…know," Elizabeth says, honestly, with a sigh, "I just met him."

"He's waving at you," Karan coos, " _aw_. Another uncle? I remember George used to come pick you up--"

"Yeah, something like that," Elizabeth snaps, "excuse me."

* * *

"Hi," Henry says, taking off his aviators.

"Hey," Elizabeth says flatly, keeping a few feet of distance between them on the curb and crossing her arms, "what are you doing here?"

"I thought…you might like to go to lunch?"

"I already ate."

"Oh, I thought…since it was an Early Release day…"

"How'd you know that, anyway?"

"Your school website--"

"And _how'd_ you know what school I go to?"

"Your…blog. The one you and your mother run? 'Boleyn Queens'?"

"Oh," she says with a sigh, gaze pointed on something over his shoulder, rather than him, "right. I didn't know that was on there."

"There was a linked article on it, to how you won in a Science Fair last year, it listed your school. It's Parent Teacher Conference day, today, right? That's why the early release?"

"Yup," Elizabeth says, curt, slipping her thumbs under the straps of her backpack and adjusting them, fidgeting.

"Should _I_ …?"

He waves his hand, vaguely, but she gets his meaning, and almost laughs with incredulity. _It's a little late for parent-teacher conferences at this point, isn’t it?_

She _could_ say that, exactly that thought, but it's a little mean, even for her. Even though she thinks he deserves a little meanness. _He_ certainly didn't bother to spare her feelings two days ago, _so_ _why should I spare his now?_

"Why _would_ you?" she asks, brow furrowed, tone imbued with disbelief.

"Right, I don't know, I mean--"

"My mom already went," she says, cutting off his rambling, "she scheduled a private one last week. This week interfered with her work schedule, so. It's taken care of."

"Okay," he says softly, scratching the nape of his neck, eyes downcast, obviously at a loss.

He seems crestfallen, honestly, and, well…Elizabeth doesn't forgive easily, but she does feel a little bit bad about that, nevertheless. His expression was so hopeful before.

This man is her father, after all, which she knows with certainty, for a few reasons:

> 1.) Her mom doesn't lie, ever.
> 
> 2.) How much she looks like him, from the fullness of her lips to the shape of her nose, to her hair, even her _ears_ are like his, pointed and pixie-like (she was an elf for Halloween last year, and her mother asked one of her favorite makeup artists to do prosthetics for her ears, but she barely had to do anything).
> 
> 3.) Her gut feeling, which has never, ever been wrong: not when she met Robin Dudley for the first time and knew they would be best friends, not when she knew her mom would get that promotion a few years ago, not when she knew she _would_ win that Science Fair last year. Never.

So, he's her father, and that's supposed to mean something, after all, though it hasn't meant much yet-- not much more than disbelief, the painful sting of rejection, and tears in his office, anyway.

And he did come here, did read her blog (extensively, probably, since that post was from a year ago), did find her school. That suggests some effort on his part.

She's not letting him off the hook, but…Elizabeth doesn't really see the harm in throwing him a bone.

"I'm not hungry," she reiterates, then continues, with a shrug, "I like _tea_ , though."

"We can do tea," he says, quickly, "where do you like to--"

"Thing is, I don't...really," she considers how to phrase this, not wanting to hurt his feelings, but needing to be honest, "I just don't…really feel comfortable being alone with you."

* * *

" _Oh_ ," he says, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice and failing, "sure, I understand. Would you…feel more comfortable if you took a friend, maybe?"

Henry gestures to the circle of girls she just left, who are currently ogling the two of them unabashedly, occasionally dipping their heads together and talking.

"No," she says, with a much put-upon sigh, scuffing the pavement with the bottom of her shoe, "they'd just hit on you."

"Oh," he says with a startled laugh, "I don't think…I'm old enough to be their--"

"They would. They're all half in love with you already. Wish _I_ could walk past a group of people and have them fall in love with me," she says with a pout, shaking her head.

"You might be closer to that than you think," he says, nodding to a group of boys that keep sneaking glances in their direction; there's one in particular with messy, dark hair, wearing a leather jacket, that's been looking at her ever since she was standing at the entrance with her girlfriends. 

"Please," she says, rolling her eyes, "as _if_ \--oh! _They'll_ hit on you," she says pointing towards the circle of girls, "but I know someone who won't! I'll be right back," Elizabeth says, turning around and running up the steps towards the group of boys.

He watches her as she pushes one aside, makes her way to the center. One boy tugs on one of her braids and she smacks him on the shoulder-- _good for her_ , he thinks, grinning as she tugs the hand of the boy in the leather jacket, then leaves, he hears her say, "Gentlemen, it's been a displeasure as always," and they call " _Whipped_!" in response (to her dragging the boy away from the group, Henry assumes).

The boy responds with a standard "Shut the fuck up!" in a startlingly deep, rich voice, ridding himself of the leather jacket and revealing a sweater underneath, the sleeves of it rolled up to his elbows.

* * *

"Hi," Elizabeth says, meeting Henry on the steps, "this is my friend Robin, Robin this is my…uh…Henry," she settles on, watching carefully as they shake hands.

"Nice to meet you," Robin says, and Henry's eyes flick to the Latin inscription that adorns his arm, settling back on his rather coolly, he responds, "Likewise."

"Is your car…?" Elizabeth trails off, searching the lot, she remembers the Lincoln town car but can't see it.

"I'll call them," Henry says, smiling at Elizabeth, he takes his phone out of his suit pocket, "they'll pull up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EsY2i7iJYs4 "keep myself awake" by black lab is a song that always makes me think of henry dreaming of anne, so i put it here, since he mentions his dreams of her in this chapter, particularly the lyrics:
> 
> "i have this dream at night/almost every night/i've been dreaming it forever/it's easy to remember it: it's always cold/it's always day/you're always here/you always say/'i'm alright, i'll be ok'/'if i can keep myself awake'"


	3. video et taceo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's told him, time and time again, from swing sets to Romeo + Juliet rehearsals to science fairs to jukebox diner afternoons, that she never feels like she's missing anything. That girls had fathers with shiny shoes and newspapers in hand, sure, that pushed them on the swings, but that she had a mother that sewed her custom-made dresses and never failed to push her on the swings, either. Did it enough for two people, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quotes are from the 1970 movie "Love Story"
> 
> a reminder that robin's tattoo says: "Honi soit qui mal y pense"

From the front, and from the distance, Elizabeth hadn't been able to tell that the Lincoln Town Car was, in fact, a 'Lincoln _Executive_ Town Car' (so said the writing on the side of the door) stretch limousine.

She sits with Robin on the left side of the vehicle, the one that faces the bar and small screen TV. Henry sits upon one of the seats pressed against the partition between them and the driver, legs diagonal to the edge of their seats, facing them. Elizabeth is the one sitting nearest Henry, the one that's closest to the partition besides him.

" _Sooo_ ," Elizabeth says after a minute or so of a _Bach_ piece streaming through the speakers being the only sound in the car, "do you not drive, or…?"

Robin shoots her a look, which she ignores, as Henry clears his throat, "I drive. This is just…the car service, that I have, for Plantagenet, so…I figure I may as well use it. Parking in this city is hell."

"Mmm," Elizabeth says, twirling her locket ring (enclosed with a small photo of her mother on one side, one of Anne and Elizabeth together on the other) around her finger,  "so, what, you got off early from work? Are you on lunch, or something?"

"I took the afternoon off," Henry says, smiling, "actually."

"Huh. _That's_ a bit presumptuous of you, no?" she asks coolly, taking note of the way his gaze falls, the pursing of his mouth.

* * *

Robin doesn't know the extent of how rude Henry was to her (he had pressed, of course, but Elizabeth hadn't gone into details, so he relented-- all she had said was "he didn't believe I was his daughter, okay? _Drop it_ , Robin"), but that's pretty savage, even for her. He elbows her side and she swats his shoulder, reflexively.

"I wasn't sure," Henry answers, "I didn't know how long you'd want to…"

"Okay," Elizabeth says.

Robin leans over and whispers, "be nice," and she rolls her eyes, starts checking her cuticles, and pushes her leg against his (not quite a kick, but with some force, before she withdraws it and crosses her legs again).

"Are you two…dating?" Henry asks, quirking a single brow, his gaze flitting between the two of them.

" _Geez_ ," Elizabeth snaps, her cheeks coloring, "I _told_ you we were friends, didn't I?"

" _Lizzie_ ," Robin whispers, scolding, then, in a neutral tone, turns to Henry, "no, we're not dating, but we get that a lot. It's okay. We're friends."

" _Best_ friends," Elizabeth corrects him, nudging his arm, " _excuse_ you."

"Ah, yes," Robin says, rolling his eyes, " _excuse_ me, Your Highness," he flourishes his hand in a downward spiral, a mock bow of sorts, " _best_ friends, of course."

Henry's gaze is trained on Robin's arm, again, the one with the tattoo, and Robin rubs it against the fabric of his sweater, self-consciously.

"'Shame be to him who thinks evil of it'," the older man says, eyes bright, "interesting choice."

"What?" Robin asks, caught off guard-- it's the first time since their handshake that Henry's spoken to him directly.

"So…you don't know the meaning of the words you chose to ink yourself with?"

"No, of course I…that's not what it means, is all."

"It is, though," Henry says, head tilted to the side in challenge (an almost mirror reflection of Elizabeth when she's giving one, it gives Robin chills, and he glances over at his friend: scrolling through her Pinterest, being no help to him at all), "it's French origin. _Old_ French, actually, though it's still used today as a…different sort of expression than its original. Something that's more tongue-in-cheek than literal."

Elizabeth lifts her gaze from her phone (a fair feat to achieve-- Robin once wrote one of her favorite phrases, " _video et taceo_ ", with a doodle of one eye closed and one open, upon the back of her neck when her fiery hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, with a ballpoint pen, and she _still_ didn't look up from the Instagram feed on her screen, merely murmured "if whatever you're drawing is phallic in nature I am literally never speaking to you again"), expression a touch softer than before.

"You speak French?" she asks, a new lilt to her voice while she addresses him (her tone was cool and flat before).

"Yes," Henry answers, grinning (the difference between Henry looking at Elizabeth and Henry looking at Robin is such a stark contrast that he almost laughs-- sunshine and darkness, more or less), "I do."

"So does my Mom," she says, smiling shyly, she ducks her head, starts fiddling with the end of one of her braids.

"Yes," he says, gently, "I know."

"You _do_?" Elizabeth asks, tone warm with surprise, "I didn't think you…knew each other very well."

* * *

"We don't," Henry admits, allowing his guard to fall a bit (this is the most receptive she's been since he waited for her at the front of her school), "but I did learn that."

He hopes she doesn't ask for context, because he's not really sure what he could say-- she spoke in French to the bartender, he quoted the only French phrase he had bothered to memorize from high school ('would you like to sleep with me tonight?'), and it worked?

 **_You_ ** _are the result of it working?_

 _That_ wouldn't be appropriate. He doesn't know anything about being a father, but he's _pretty_ sure of that.

He could tell her that a week after her mother had left his apartment without saying goodbye, he had checked out every 'Learning French' CD and tape set from the library, bought a few from some bookstores. Listened to them while he drove to work, or errands, parroted the phrases back when the narrator asked him to do so. That the way the French phrases he repeated were interspersed with him muttering about the obscene amount of traffic in this city was comical ("' _D'où êtes-vous_?' 'Where are you from?'....nice turn signal, you fucking PRAT…' _Mon aéroglisseur est plein d'anguilles'_ , 'my hovercraft is filled with-- wait, what the _fuck_ , why is that…oh my GOD, _idiots_ , idiots everywhere…").

He could tell her that his father had asked for his help on some projects that were being filmed in London, wanted a "younger voice" to weigh in, back in 2003.

(That he now knew this meant he hadn't even been on the same continent for his daughter's birth, a fact that only added insult to the injury of his ignorance of her existence.)

He could tell her that when he tired of London he took a train to France and visited all the places Anne had told him about on their night together, retraced the steps she said she took on weekends during her boarding school education, some places he'd been before, of course, but looking at them through her eyes was different.

Stayed there for longer than his father appreciated, stayed months, in fact, and learned French by living there (he always was a quick learner, when he put his mind to it, and golden charisma helped Henry assimilate to a new place with more ease than others might achieve).

But these things are embarrassing (the impact of one woman he only knew for one evening and night, a small flash of time, a stack of Polaroids he kept despite himself, pathetically, the ripped dress he'd never been able to throw away; he had put it back in Katherine's chest, as if Anne might come back for it one day and ask for it); and Henry doesn't like being embarrassed.

* * *

"What do _you_ think it means?" Elizabeth asks Robin, turning to face him.

"'Shame on whomsoever would think badly of it'," Robin says, crossing his arms.

"That's not _so_ different," she says, rolling her eyes.

"'Evil' and 'badly' are very different tones," he counters.

"'Evil' has generally been the more accepted translation. It was the motto of the Knights of the Order of the Garter," Henry says, hands folded against his sternum, eyes flicking lazily to Robin, mouth tugged upwards in a smirk.

"It's an Anglo-Norman maxim, _actually_. So it was probably _first_ said around the time of William the Conqueror."

Henry cants his head to the side, mouth parted slightly, eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. Elizabeth leans forward, chin in hand, eyes darting between the two of them with sparkling mirth.

 _Yeah_ , Robin thinks, crossing his arms, _that's right,_ _I know things_.

"It gained significance and became a motto," Henry says, enunciation heavy on each word, "with Edward III. Not William the Conqueror."

"Well, who's to say--"

"Historians. Are to say. My major at Oxford was history. I _think_ I would know."

"I thought your major was law?" Elizabeth asks, brow furrowed.

Robin and Henry break their stare and both look over at her simultaneously.

Henry worries his bottom lip in between his teeth, then his hands, together (and Robin notices…well, _Christ, the way he looks at her_ , for one thing, as if he's afraid she'll disappear entirely if he so much as blinks, but also the appearance of hope, fluttering, tentatively), and he asks:

"How did you know--"

"I read quickly," she says, quietly, fiddling with the hem of her skirt, looking down at her lap, biting her own full, cupid's bow mouth (or, her father's, really, as they're more or less identical), "the degree in…your office. I read it, when I was…there."

" _Oh_. Yes, it was a double…major."

"Oh," Elizabeth replies, "that's…nice?"

"We're here," Henry says, tonelessly, patting the front pocket of his suit jacket and withdrawing a credit card, and Robin is grateful for the distraction, waits for Elizabeth to get out first after the driver opens the car door. Henry gestures for him to get out after her, but it seems like a trap, so he shakes his head, and mirrors the gesture-- _after you_.

Henry rolls his eyes but ambles forward, leans his tall frame against the door before stepping out, and Robin feels a little bit like he's won… _something_.

 _Wha_ t, he couldn't say, but he started this journey out hoping Elizabeth would take it easy on him and now he's kind of half and half on it-- seeing him be dragged would be fun, but he knows she might regret not giving him more of a chance, later.

In any event, the verbal sparring seems rather immature, on her father's part, anyway-- he's at least two decades his senior. Robin's not stupid, though, he remembers Henry was warm when Robin first walked over to them in the parking lot, detected the dip to frostiness as soon as his sleeve revealed the tattoos.

He's dated a few girls, though never any for very long (Elizabeth analyzes them, mercilessly, is never mean to them directly, of course, but she always picks apart some flaw from the girl in question that he had never noticed before and then it becomes _all_ he can notice-- the girl has a way of getting in your head, he has to give her that). Because the relationships are never long, he's rarely had the horror or privilege of meeting the parents, but Henry's reaction to the ink is certainly not a rare one for parents, even in his limited experience.

Maybe it's even a good sign, for Elizabeth, that he cares enough to be cold to _him_.

She's told him, time and time again, from swing sets to Romeo + Juliet rehearsals to science fairs to jukebox diner afternoons, that she never feels like she's missing anything. That girls had fathers with shiny shoes and newspapers in hand, sure, that pushed them on the swings, but that she had a mother that sewed her custom-made dresses and never failed to push her on the swings, either. Did it enough for two people, in fact.

But he's never missed the wistful edge of sadness drawn upon her features whenever she sees a daughter with her father at school events.

Anne Boleyn is a fierce, formidable woman that's given Elizabeth the world, or as much of it as she can, in any event. Anne's certainly more devoted to her than his own parents are to him, and he might even be jealous of such a singular love from a parent if he didn't relish in the independence their indifference gave him. 

In any event, Elizabeth's honest to the point of bluntness (similar to her mother, and her father, it seems, in that respect), sometimes a lack of awareness, even, so he doesn't think she's lying when she's said she never feels like she's missed out.

He just thinks…she might not be willing to admit that even if she doesn't _feel_ like she's missing something, she might wonder about what could've been.

On a few occasions, or maybe several.

"I'm not excited to meet him or anything," she had scoffed after he ran the facial recognition software and they identified him, "I couldn't care less. But he's rich and my mom and I need that right now. So…"

"He's rich and you need that? Or he's rich and you need to know what it would've been like to be Elizabeth Tudor," Robin had asked, smirking, "rather than Elizabeth Boleyn?"

"I would _rather_ be Elizabeth Boleyn times a thousand," she had said with a sniff, her finger smudging a print on the computer screen, touching a photo paparazzi had snapped of him during a bender (documented by the less than illustrious Perez Hilton), "he doesn't exactly read 'Father of the Year' material."

And Anne Boleyn, Robin knows, reads Mother of the Year material through and through.

But he couldn't help noticing that she hadn't _really_ answered his question: had, instead, sidestepped it by stating what name she would rather lay claim to rather than admit to wondering about what the possibility of the other might have held for her.

* * *

"So…what did your mom…tell you, about me, exactly?" Henry asks, brow furrowed as he fills his cup of coffee with small pitcher of cream.

The white of the cream clouds and blooms, unfurling over the black surface of the coffee. Robin watches it, mesmerized, sees Elizabeth sit up straighter from the corner of his eye, and all he can think is, _oh **shit** , was that a bad move_.

Henry waits, runs his knuckles back and forth over his lower lip, his gaze on the table rather than her, as if he's scared of the answer to this question.

"Oh _boy_ ," she says, voice pitched upwards to Shirley Temple countenance, she clasps her slender, freckled hands and folds them under her chin, then gazes, wistfully at a spot in the distance, " _well_ , nothing at first…she used to just tell me that I sprang from her forehead, fully-formed," Elizabeth continues, nodding to herself, she stirs her spoon around in her cup of jasmine tea, then taps it against the rim, "like Athena from Zeus. She wouldn't even show me any baby pictures."

"She did…what?" Henry asks, gripping the edge of the table, " _Really_?"

Robin tries to stifle a laugh, pulls his glass of water (he had asked for a Coke and the waitress had laughed like he had told a funny joke and said "we don't have _that_ sort of thing here") closer to him, and drinks.

" _No_ , not 'really'," Elizabeth scoffs, " _God_ , you're gullible."

Robin watches his friend smirk and take a careful sip of her tea, the handle of the cup held between a long forefinger and thumb. The only thought running through his mind (as it has, many a time before) is this: _this girl can be savage as hell_.

"I don't really _appreciate_ ," she continues, playing with the locket ring on her hand again, "you trying to dig up dirt on my mom."

"I wasn't," Henry protests, flustered, he scans the room, lays his hands flat against the table, "that's not what I'm trying to do--"

"Don't bullshit me."

" _Excuse_ me?"

"'Do not bullshit thy daughter'. That's a commandment."

Robin gets the reference (Elizabeth has made him watch the movie she's referring to so many times that he knows certain lines by heart), but given that the expression on Henry's face falls somewhere between bemused and confused, he'd hazard a guess that it went over his head.

"Is it?" Henry asks, wryly, pushing the saucer with the untouched scone on it to the edge of the table, "I must have missed that day in Catholic school."

Elizabeth's mouth drops open.

"Do you _seriously_ ," she asks, placing her elbows on the table, scooting her chair closer to it, and Henry, levity weighing over the previous gravity of their conversation, for the moment, it seems, "not get that reference?"

" _What_ reference?"

"Well, in the movie, it's 'do not bullshit thy father', but--"

"Huh. I like that better," Henry says, emitting a short, soft laugh before covering his mouth with his hand.

"Of course you do," Elizabeth says, rolling her eyes.

Henry shrugs, says, "Sorry, I don't know it."

"The highest grossing movie of 1970? I only know that because of her," Robin says, nodding towards Elizabeth, "of course, but…."

The older man's expression remains blank, and he shrugs, again.

"It saved Paramount Pictures from bankruptcy?" Elizabeth offers, elbows still resting against the table, circling her hands near her head in a _how are you not getting thi_ s gesture.

"I don't keep up," Henry says, coolly, fidgeting with his tie and narrowing his eyes, so grey in the muted light of the café that they almost appear the color of smoke, "with Paramount Pictures."

The rivalry between Paramount and Plantagenet was a long and bitter one. The initials of both production companies were the same, and they had each accused the other of plagiarizing names and stealing script ideas.  

Elizabeth's not a loyalist to either company, though (not that she had any reason to be, given that she wasn't aware of her paternity till recently), as Robin knows…she just watches and appreciates the classics.

 _"You're_ the one that was _alive_ then! You should _know_!" Elizabeth bursts out, leaning her head to the side in exasperation.

"I was _not_ alive in 1970!" Henry scoffs, then shakes his head at the waitress who comes over to the table with her pad of paper in hand, only to make a quick turn on her heel, "how old do you think I _am_?"

"I don't know! Old!" she exclaims, making a vague, back-and-forth hand gesture between her and Henry over the table.

Henry puts a hand over his heart, and Robin can't tell if he's actually affronted or if it's a teasing gesture.

"I don't know it," he repeats, "and I didn't even exist during its release.. for your _information_."

"Are you _serious_? You own a production company! And you don't know _Love Story_?"

"Yes," Henry says, with a shrug, "I own a production company. So I don't really have much _time_ ," he elucidates, taking a careful sip of coffee, "to watch movies. Usually."

"What do you want, a medal?" she asks, coolly, leaning back in her chair, crossing her arms.

Robin watches with interest as the older man laughs, looks at the ceiling, a exhales, and smiles, shoulders shaking. The strangest reaction, really, but then Henry shakes his head. Almost as if that…surprised him.

* * *

 

> _"I don't date teenagers," he says, indignant, crossing his arms, he stops facing her and faces the doors instead._
> 
> _"What do you want, a medal?"_

He's sitting across from a miniature version of her mother, apparently. Although she may be his likeness in appearance, it seems she's Anne Boleyn's in personality. But then, he thinks, bitterly, she's the only one who received the privilege of raising her, so it's not as if that doesn't make sense.

He's probably missed his window for any possible influence he could have had. He missed all her formative years, and with that thought, he's left with the vague wonderment of if this is really worth it.

"What do you mean?" Henry asks, finally, her eyes becoming wilder in the seconds that have passed during his reverie, and she scoffs, for what feels like the millionth time this afternoon, and says:

"You're very busy and you don't have much time. So I'm supposed to feel special, right? Or grateful? That you're taking your precious _time_ ," she says, stretching the words dramatically, "to take me to a café or whatever. But the thing is I didn't _ask_ you to."

"I know, but--"

"You want me to say she lied, right? That she told me I couldn't meet you, when I was growing up?"

"No, that's not what I want--"

"You were trying to dig up dirt, and I don't like it. Because my mom doesn't lie. Ever. She doesn't lie to hurt feelings, but she doesn't lie to spare them, either. She told you I didn't ask about you, right?"

"Yes," he admits, and this is sinking, so fast, just like last time, and he really, really didn't want it to be like last time. And now he knows what it feels like to fight a losing battle. It's what she must have felt like when she revealed her identity at the 'interview' and he reacted the way…he did.

"I didn't ask about you. I didn't want to know you. I didn't care. She didn't lie. She _doesn't_ lie," Elizabeth reiterates, Robin puts a hand on her shoulder, as if trying to prevent her from leaning forward, but she shrugs it off, angrily, and hurt flashes over his face.

 _Didn't_. _**Didn't** want to know you, **didn't** care._  

The past tense creates a flicker of hope, despite himself.

* * *

"Then why did you try to find me?" Henry asks, quietly, and there it is: the question Robin's still wondering himself.

The answer to which his friend probably doesn't want to give, if the tears welling in her dark eyes are any indication.

"I was _curious_ , okay?" she says, clasping a hand around her neck.

"That's okay!" Henry says, quickly.

" _Is_ that _okay_? Is that _alright_ with you?" she asks, wrinkling her nose, tone imbued with disdain and a touch of pride in the tilt of her chin, upwards.

"Of course it is. What do you want to know?"

"Are you an addict?" she asks, bluntly, squinting at him.

" _No_ , why would you think--"

"I thought maybe she didn't want you in our lives…well, I never knew or asked. I still don't. But I trust her, so I figured whatever the reason was, it was a good one. But then I found… TMZ and Perez Hilton and…others documented your bender. So, I thought, maybe, it was because you were an addict."

* * *

Oh… _that_.

"No, that was…I'm not usually like that. That was rare, for me."

Robin is leaning back in his chair, the very picture of discomfort, head turned the side, gnawing his lower lip.

"Oh?" Elizabeth presses.

"My father had just…passed. And I was--"

"Celebrating?" she supplies, zooming in on a picture on the screen of her phone and sliding it over to him.

It's of Henry in his mid twenties, laughing, maniacally, on the floor of some club in Cabo, broken glass to the left of his shoulder, glittering in the strobe lights. Brandon is holding Henry's hand in the picture, trying to yank him upwards, while holding the other hand out as if to stop the camera from capturing the unflattering image of his best friend.

The days that were nothing but a drunken blur to Henry had been well-documented by the press. The poor publicity had almost caused Plantagenet Productions to be passed to his older brother, Arthur, despite the fact that Henry knew the company more intimately than anyone, save his father. Luckily, Arthur had had no interest and declined; had used his connections to introduce his younger brother with Thomas Wolsey, one of the best PR specialists, if not _the_ best PR specialist, on the West Coast.

"I…in a way, yes, I was… trying to process, somehow. He wasn't a very nice person. I felt half grief, half relief, when I learned about his death."

"I'm gonna go," Robin says, zipping up his jacket, "to another table, I think, for now--"

"No, stay," Elizabeth says, immediately, tugging at this elbow and yanking him back down to the seat next to her, her eyes never leaving Henry's as she does so.

"Right," Henry says, watching with some amusement as Robin glares at her and Elizabeth keeps looking at Henry, unaffected by this, "so…anyway. I would hate…I would _really_ hate, if that was how _you_ ended up feeling…about me."

Robin is, at this point, about as turned away in his chair as he can be from both Elizabeth, and Henry, practically squirming, he ends up slipping earbuds from the pocket of his jacket and slipping them in.

Elizabeth takes her phone from where she passed it to him, puts it in the pocket of her school blazer. And just…stares at him. The dark intensity of her gaze is unnerving, but he tries to remember he's seen it before (fourteen years ago, and yesterday, and now), stared back into it, suffered no bodily harm as a result of it, although he knows the depth of it makes it feel like this is an imminent possibility.

Piercing doesn't seem to quite do Elizabeth and Anne's matching eyes justice…seizing, perhaps? Captivating? Endless?

She twists a ring around her finger, again, and he's distracted from his thoughts of her eyes when her gaze strays to her hand.

"This is a locket ring," she says, abruptly, sliding it off, she uses her thumbnail to flip the top of it open, "if you want to see…"

Henry takes the offering from her hand, gently, looks at the picture inside.

"My uncle took it," she says, "George. I was four."

It's small, like the picture in a necklace locket would be, black and white. The intimacy of it is so great that he feels like an intruder with the ring in his hand.

Elizabeth's nose is nuzzled behind her mother's earlobe, her eyes squeezed shut, smiling. Anne's expression mirrors hers, eyes squeezed shut, except she looks like she's mid-laugh. It's candid, natural, open. A private moment captured by someone else close to the two of them, clearly.

"Thank you," he says, handing it back to her, and she nods, once, before closing it and putting it back on her hand.

"I'll think about it," Elizabeth says, nodding, grabbing her bag from the floor and standing up from her seat.

"You'll 'think about--"

"I'll think about it," she repeats, standing up, "I should be going, I have to get to Melody's sleepover--"

"I can drive you," Henry offers, standing up from his own seat, quickly, so quickly he hits the table and winces, almost knocks his cup of coffee over in his haste, catches it before it spills, "or, have you driven--"

"You're _so_ busy, though," she says, tapping Robin, still facing away from them in protest to having to witness emotionally charged reunion moments, "and I usually take the train, anyway--"

"She lets you take the train?" he asks, dusting the front of his suit jacket off with his hand, " _That_ can't be safe."

"She makes sure I'm safe. I don't get to ride it alone," Elizabeth explains, testily, hoisting her bag over one shoulder, and he already put his foot in his mouth once, so he tries not to gun for a second time.

"I ride with her," Robin says, taking his headphones out, "or Anne does."

 _'Anne'_?

"Oh, well, can I drop you off at the station, at least--"

"It's only four blocks. Give me your phone," Elizabeth says, holding her hand out.

He's too startled by the bluntness of her demand to do anything but immediately comply with it, and Elizabeth taps her fingers across the screen of his phone, before handing it back to him, then pulling her own phone out.

"We have dinner tomorrow. Chinese food, always. Saturdays. You can come, if you want. I think. I have to ask her first. If she says yes, I'll text you the address. I just texted me from your phone and put my number in yours, so…later!" she chirps, and she and Robin leave the table, swiftly. Robin salutes him before turning around, then holds the door open for Elizabeth, as she exits, head bent over her phone. Robin looks back at Henry, nods, and then leaves, the bell on the door chiming behind him as it swings shut.

Feeling somewhat dazed by the speed and abrupt nature of that interaction, Henry looks down at his phone, and reads:

 

> **From: Elizabeth Boleyn**
> 
> **To: Henry Tudor**
> 
> **Sent 1:34 PM**
> 
> Do not bullshit the Boleyns. Not a commandment; just a tip from me...to you.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

> **From: Anne Boleyn**
> 
> **To: Henry Tudor**
> 
> **Sent 2:23 PM**
> 
> Elizabeth told me she invited you over tomorrow. We need to talk first, if you have the time. In person, if that's doable.
> 
> **From: Henry Tudor**
> 
> **To: Anne Boleyn**
> 
> **Sent 2:31 PM**
> 
> Of course. When are you free?
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

> **From: Henry Tudor**
> 
> **To: Jane Seymour**
> 
> **Sent 2:41 PM**
> 
> Have to cancel dinner tonight, darling. Sorry. XO
> 
> **To: Henry Tudor**
> 
> **From: Jane Seymour**
> 
> **Sent 3:00 PM**
> 
> Not funny
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> **To: Jane**
> 
> ...not joking.
> 
> **From: Jane**
> 
> **To: Henry**
> 
> What's going on?
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> Something came up. It's...complicated. 
> 
> **From: Jane**
> 
> What does that mean?
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> It's heavy. I don't want to bother you with it.
> 
> **From: Jane**
> 
> I'm already at your office. 

* * *

"It's just _unrealistic_ , that a _single_ mother on a _single_ income would wait this long to inform the father of her child about his paternity," Jane says, crisply, leaning against his desk, a single hand splayed against the crushed velvet blue of her pencil skirt.

"She _didn't_. _Elizabeth_ did," Henry reiterates, and it comes off more blunt than it should, he realized, when she flinches at his words, but _goddamn it_ if he isn't tired of repeating the same thing to her over and over again; tired of relentlessly assuaging his girlfriend's insecurities about the situation when, quite frankly, _he_ has more of a right to those insecurities than she does.

And honestly, Henry's getting the impression that it's less her not understanding than her not caring to: a subtle but irritating difference that's sanding away at the softness of his former patience and turning it into something else.

"I don't like it," she snaps, twiddling her fingers against her legs like she's playing piano upon it, "I really, _really_ don't. It screams 'off' to me."

"If you can't accept this," Henry says, with a heavy sigh, worrying a hand over his brow, "we're going to have problems, Jane."

"I think you're too trusting. I just don’t want to see you get _hurt_ , Henry--"

" _I_ think we should take a break," he says swiftly, watches her clear blue eyes shutter closed at this remark.

"You don't mean that."

"Actually," he says, full to the brim with impatience, he finds himself suddenly cold to her, without an ounce of regret (even as her eyelashes flutter, even as her chest heaves and a high-pitched gasp trills from her slender, pearled throat), "I do. I wasn't asking for your _permission_ , Jane, I was trying to _considerately_ ," Henry emphasizes through gritted teeth, feeling anything but, "inform you about something important to me. And you won't listen. So I think it's time…to take some time."

Jane blinks, slowly, before her countenance settles into coolness, she feels around on his desk before grabbing her clutch and then steps towards him, he is worried for a moment that the hand she raises will be used for a slap but instead she strokes his cheek, lightly, with a single finger, before kissing it, whispers, "Fine. Some time is…fine."

"Thank you," he murmurs, "I probably needed a bit of it to figure this out by myself, regardless," and she nods, purses her thin lips before wishing him a good night and leaving his office, the heavy door falling shut behind her light footsteps.

A sense of relief washes over him once she's gone. And then the relief is washed away by nerves; because he remembers where he's going in an hour or so. 

Who he's going to see. 

Anne Boleyn, with her intensity of pride and quiet beauty, thirty four years old, is the mother of his child. 

They have a daughter. 

Anne Boleyn, who is still as beautiful as she was at twenty one ( _more so, actually_ , but if he entertains  _that_ thought for too long the nerves may overtake, so he pushes it aside).

Elizabeth Boleyn, with all of Anne's poise and all of his looks, is his daughter. 

It's not that he doesn't wholly believe all these things, weaving as they do in a thread of continuation in his mind, but more that they are stirring something in him he thought he had forgotten: an unassailable faith in the shape of things to come.


	4. a different way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advanced Algebra textbook, Le Petit Prince, Jane Eyre, a much-highlighted paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet (he skims through the pages on that one, quickly, there are notes written in the margins in slanted handwriting, he flips to the front of the book and 'Elizabeth' is written there in cursive, loops descend down the entire page, almost, from the E and Z, elaborate, and he smiles before closing it).

**Friday**

Anne does _not_ change her outfit, or fix her hair, or add any makeup to her cleanly washed face, after the text from Henry.

She twists her hair into a low bun, off of her neck, and continues to work on the two mannequins set out in her living room, as she was doing before her phone buzzed.

However, when she hears the knock on her door, she does wish she had, maybe ( _perhaps_ ), considered doing some of the above.

_Which is stupid_ , she thinks, as she peers into the peephole on her apartment's front door, then unlatches the chain from the door, _stupid, stupid, stupid_ ….

She opens the door and lifts her head to look him in the eye, thinks he looks terribly out of place on her doorstep, _like she cut his picture out and pasted it there_.

He wears jeans and a cashmere turtleneck sweater (oddly warm outfit for Southern California, but she supposes that _if you spend the majority of your time in overly-air-conditioned high rise buildings and town cars_ …Elizabeth had, of course, filled her in on every detail, down to the fact that she had felt goose bumps rise even under the thick material of her tights while they were driven from Golden Age to the café… _you adapt your wardrobe accordingly_ ), and _looks more like an off-duty European model than anyone his age should have a right to_.

Anne feels underdressed, given that she's wearing an off-shoulder tee, worn soft by years and use. That and an old maternity skirt she kept (the waistband has a lot of give, so she kept it for comfort's sake) one that reaches her ankles, heather grey.

"Hello," Henry says, hands in pockets.

* * *

She nods to his greeting, lips pursed.

"You don't seem pleased to see me," he remarks, absorbing the details of her expression, unflinchingly observant in its own right, cool and slack, her mouth releases from its tight hold and settles, neutral.

" _That_ sounds familiar," she says, smirking

> _"Well, **you**  don't sound pleased to see me…and yet you went to the trouble of breaking into my office."_

"Should I be?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

He blinks, owlishly, unnerved by her stare and the question itself.

"I…"

Anne continues to stare, drums her fingers against the open door, then asks, "Are you a vampire?"

"What?"

"You haven't come in yet."

"I haven't been invited to."

"Yes, exactly," she says, tone bright, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

"That's called being considerate."

"You know what else they call considerate?" she asks, coolly, tapping her left index against the dimple on her chin.

"I'm not really into guessing games."

" _I'm_ not really into people picking my daughter up from school without asking me first," Anne counters, pushing her door open all the way, before turning around and entering her home, "so, I think I win that one. Come in."

* * *

"I didn't know it was a game," he replies, closing the door behind him.

" _Oh_ ," she says, with a chuckle, gesturing to the empty couch, "it's _definitely_ not."

It's lumpy upon sitting, brown leather and strewn with colorful blankets on top, the cushions covered in throw pillows. Henry picks them up, pushes them away from the corner where he sits, facing Anne.

She stands behind one mannequin with a wide skirt of green velvet, tiered in such a way that it reminds him of a bellflower, hanging upside down. A small card table is to the left of it, draped in squares of the same fabric, a small notebook and a pencil.

Anne leans over, jots something down in it with the pencil.

Irritation mounts a steady ascent within him (he's never taken too kindly to being ignored) as she continues whatever it is she's working on; failing to acknowledge his presence at all. Henry breathes, deeply, exhales through his nose before asking:

"Is there. A _reason_. I can't pick her up from school?"

"You should've asked me," she snaps, picking up a mug from the table.

"I didn't have your number, so how was I supposed to--"

"Well, that sounds like a _personal_ _problem_."

"I can't pick her up from--why _not_?"

"You should _know_ ," Anne says, peevishly, sipping her drink and glaring at him over the rim.

_I cancelled a date! I made this a priority! I 'took a break' with a girlfriend of months because she doubted the validity of Elizabeth being mine and I want to be the last person who ever does that and also I want to forget I ever did and why are you so goddamn difficult? (don't ask that) (I am trying I am trying I am trying…)_

"I should know _what_?" he asks instead, tone clipped, worrying the inside of the neck of his sweater, tugging at it.

Henry's schooled his tone, words even, volume low, but _goddamn_ if he doesn't want to scream right now. Just, pinch the bridge of his nose and make like he's about to take a heavy breath but replace exhalation with _endless screaming_.

"You. Should. Know. Why," Anne says, in punctuated staccato beats, setting her mug back down.

_Stay calm, stay calm, for the love of God, just stay…_

" _Why_? I'm her _fucking father_ , aren't I?!"

_Well, there goes that._

"You're a fucking man she _doesn't know_!" Anne cries out, jabbing a sewing needle in his general direction before throwing it down on the table, using the same hand to push her bangs off her forehead.

"Yeah? And whose fault is that?"

It's about five steps too far and he realizes it the second the words spill from his mouth. Her eyes shutter closed, the spark of anger extinguished into deep liquid pools of darkness.

He expects her to snap back, kick him out, even, maybe. A heavy feeling settles in his chest; he worries that he's fucked this up for good before it's even started but she surprises him:

"I didn't not tell you…out of spite, if that's what you think," Anne says, quietly, hands at her side, "really. That wasn't…my motivation."

"Then why? And _don't_ tell me because of shit I said in interviews," he says, matching her softness of tone but trying to emphasize the firmness of his conviction anyway, "because I wasn't CEO then, my dad was still was. No one was interviewing me."

"No, it wasn't that. That only…reaffirmed my decision, afterwards."

"And saying I didn't want kids? Typical mid twenties drivel, and besides that, not an _un_ common thing to say during one night stands," Henry says, and she smiles, "for obvious reasons, so I don't know why that--"

"I don't want to go into why," she interrupts, holding her stomach with one hand, "not right now. It's…heavy. I just hope you trust that it was a good reason."

She looks away from him, worrying her lip with the edge of her teeth. He finds himself drawn to the vulnerability evident in her countenance, her chest heaves, once, and she looks…pained, as if an old wound has been reopened.

He wishes he could say something to make it better, or that he had left it alone and not brought it up at all. But he knows the latter is impossible and the former; while not technically, seems equally so.

"I..."

"Do I seem like someone that lies?" she asks, tilting her head to the side, eyes widening.

> _"Well, I hate the bride. And him. So…"_
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _"That's three, you're terrible at this…she's eighteen."_
> 
> _"Gross," Anne says, wrinkling her nose in distaste._
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _"How did you get in here? No one's allowed--"_
> 
> _"Oh," she says lazily, holding her left hand up, "I borrowed my sister's wedding ring. Told your secretary I was your poor, estranged wife, that you owed years of alimony payments, cried a little bit…she folded, even though before she said no one, no one ever, ever, ever was allowed in here without your say-so._
> 
> _\--_
> 
> _"You want me to say she lied, right? That she told me I couldn't meet you, when I was growing up?"_
> 
> _"No, that's not what I want--"_
> 
> _"You were trying to dig up dirt, and I don't like it. Because my mom doesn't lie. Ever. She doesn't lie to hurt feelings, but she doesn't lie to spare them, either. She told you I didn't ask about you, right?"_
> 
> _"I didn't ask about you. I didn't want to know you. I didn't care. She didn't lie. **She doesn't lie**."_

"No," he admits, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "you don't."

"So trust me, even though I lied by omission …for years…trust that I had a good reason for doing so. Okay?"

"Yeah…okay," Henry agrees, nodding.

Anne nods, too, her gaze settling over him. She traces the rim of the mug with her index, then pulls it away quickly, shakes her head and then:

"Sorry, I didn't offer…do you want coffee? Or…I have other--"

" _Coffee_? It's," Henry says, pushing his sleeve up off his wrist to reveal his watch, "past nine."

"It is," she says, drinking her own, "but I have to finish this," she says, nodding towards the mannequin, "and the crew call's at 6 AM, and I'm sure I'll be drinking it then, too."

"Jesus. You _don't_ seem…like someone that puts things off to the last minute."

"I'm not. Extraordinary circumstances. Do you want anything else?" she asks, plucking a square of fabric, in a different shade, off the table, he watches as she disappears from view into what he assumes is a hallway, "Water?"

"Um…sure," he calls out.

He listens to her footsteps, she reappears from view before entering the open doorway to the kitchen, all that's in view as he cranes his neck towards it is a dish rack.

Water runs from the sink, a soothing sound, as he glances at the books on the coffee table near his feet. _Advanced Algebra_ textbook, _Le Petit Prince_ , _Jane Eyre_ , a much-highlighted paperback copy of Romeo and Juliet (he skims through the pages on that one, quickly, there are notes written in the margins in slanted handwriting, he flips to the front of the book and 'Elizabeth' is written there in cursive,[ loops descend down the entire page, almost, from the E and Z, elaborate](http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/144983260327/aximili-every-time-i-see-elizabeth-is), and he smiles before closing it).

She returns with a glass of water and hands it to him, Henry takes it and thanks her, watches her roll her neck as she walks back towards the table. Still rapt, as she presses her hands into the spots to the left and right of her spine and groans, softly.

Imagines what it would be like to press his own hands there.

Clears his throat, attempting to clear the thought as well.

"So," Henry says, taking a sip of water as she busies herself with the dress again, "what was the…circumstance? What happened?"

" _Well_ ," Anne says, sighing, putting her hands on her hips as she looks heavenward, "so, it's a period drama," she says, gesturing to the skirt of the dress, wryly, "in case you couldn't tell, and the lead actress is dancing with the love interest. He leans down and whispers something _scandalous_ in her ear, so she takes this sharp, breathy…"

Anne makes a mockingly high, girlish sort of gasp, and he laughs, given that it's so out of character with the natural alto of her voice.

"… _exhale_ ," she continues, with an eye roll, "of course--"

"Of course."

"Yes, of course, except that when she takes it, the stitching of her bodice bursts. And completely ruins the scene, because…well."

"Christ. How did that--"

"Well, she was panicking," Anne says, "and the director was snapping at her, like, how did this happen, did you indulge too much at crafty today before this scene, why did you do that, you know how close-fitted the gowns are for this era…typical male bullshit, so I just," she shrugs, "took the blame. Said I did a rush job and I hadn't worked enough on the stitching, that I had thought the scene didn't shoot until tomorrow."

"Why?" he asks, setting his glass down, carefully, trying to avoid a clink between the surfaces.

* * *

Henry's interest seems genuine to her. He's fidgeting, but she infers that's more or less his default demeanor, and the movement of his knee, the drumming of his fingers, don't take away from the stillness of his gaze, which hasn’t moved from her face since he asked her what happened.

"I don't know," she says, leaning her hip against the edge of the table, "I talked to her afterwards, and it's frustrating, of course, like...I give actors measurement sheets for a reason, I ask them to update it with any changes for _a reason_ …I mean, for fuck's sake," she says, with a laugh, putting a hand over her chest, " _I_ don't care if you've gained ten pounds, but the fabric of your dress does."

"Well, _she_ cared," he points out, folding his hands, twisting a silver ring around his forefinger.

"But she shouldn't. The entertainment industry is just…cruel to women. So she did. She was embarrassed, I guess, but…anyways, she was very grateful, paid me to keep the weight gain quiet, even though I told her it wasn't necessary. It makes me happy that…that path never panned out with Elizabeth. She was interested in it, because she likes drama at school, but it got nipped in the bud…fairly quickly."

"How so?"

"Ah...well. We had a meeting with an agent. It didn't go…well."

"You can't leave it at _that_ ," he says, laughing, "what happened?"

"We brought what we were supposed to. She had her headshot, a reel, the whole deal. He told her she was lovely, talented, but that she should," Anne says, laughing, shaking her head, "God…that she had the 'right figure', but that before starting auditions, she should either 'wait until and if she _grew into_ her nose and ears'…or consider rhinoplasty. For a smaller one."

"He said," Henry says, glowering, eyes almost narrowed to slits, " _what_?"

"Right? Well, so of course, she's on the verge of tears, and I, uh…threw his paperweight at the wall, if I recall."

"Is that your go-to move?" he asks, smirking.

> _Anne gets up from his chair, taking the paperweight with her, and sweeps her arm towards the chair, grandly, as if gesturing for him to sit down._
> 
> _She walks over to the window, takes in the skyline, the cars below her that look like ants (his office is on the fortieth floor) before turning around to face the wall with the bookshelves._
> 
> _Anne throws the paperweight against one of the shelves, closing her eyes when she hears the satisfying sound of glass shattering._

"Shit…maybe… well, it was there on his desk, within reach. Wasn't _quite_ as expensive as yours, but he called security, and we made a mad dash to the parking lot, to my car…had a Bonnie and Clyde getaway. It ended up actually being a pretty fun day...we went for ice cream afterwards."

"What's his name?" Henry asks, mouth set in a grim line, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"God, I don’t remember…I'm sure it's here, somewhere, in a file. If you really want it."

"I really do."

"Help yourself," she says, with a shrug, then leads him to the corner of the living room, the desk with the computer, the file cabinet next to it, pulling the top drawer out.

He rummages through them as she cuts through fabric at her work station.

"Should I bring anything, tomorrow?" he calls out, she glances up, he holds an open file in his hand, flicking through papers.

"If you want. We just get Chinese."

"Anything behind that tradition?"

"Um…" her head starts to ache, slightly (lack of sleep, and also, _shit_ , she realizes she forgot to eat dinner), so she pulls the hair tie out, running her hands through the tangles of her hair, massaging her scalp, "well, we're honorary Jews, so. It sort of seemed fitting."

"'Honorary'?"

"Mm-hmm. When my father's descendants came over to Staten Island, it was with the surname Buchman. They changed it to acclimate, blend in, to the French Boleyn. But, Judaism is matrilineal, and my mother's a W.A.S.P. through and through, so…"

"A _wasp_?"

"Have you ever been to the East coast?" she asks, giggling, as she starts to pull thread from her spool, measuring it against a strand of tape measure, "It's a fairly common expression there. 'White Anglo-Saxon Protestant'. So. Honorary, like I said. Not technically Jewish."

"I see," Henry says, then, small, laminated card in hand, "Nicholas Sander? That him?"

"Yes, that rings a bell," she says, "if it says it's an agency on the card, that's the only one we went to, so…"

"Great," he says, pocketing it, "well…I won't keep you anymore. It seems like you have…a lot to do."

"I do," she says, drinking her coffee, warm and strong and heavy on her tongue as it slides down. The rejuvenating powers of caffeine haven't quite kicked in yet, and she's praying they do, and quickly.

"Alright. Well," he says, ducking his head as he makes his way to the door, giving a small wave, "see you tomorrow, then."

"Henry?"

His hand stills on the doorknob, and he turns around.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing with the name?"

"Oh," he says, chuckling, turning the doorknob open, "I'm going to make sure he never works again."

"Really?"

"Of _course_."

And with that, he winks, and closes the door behind him.

* * *

**11:49 PM, Friday**

"Do you know how many canisters are here?" the female cashier asks, snapping her gum, pointing to his full cart.

Henry glances up from his phone.

Her hair is auburn, pulled back in a braid. She's cute, with a snub nose, adorned with freckles and a nose ring, gaze brown and bored. Hands covered in rings, turquoise and mood and silver. Twenty five years old at most, he guesses. Her name tag reads 'Anika'.

"No," he says, with a shrug, "sorry."

" _Great_ ," she says, rolling her eyes, beginning to scan the items, "paper or plastic?"

"Which is less likely to break?" he asks, putting his phone back into the pocket of his jacket (not wanting to be rude, despite the fact that _she's not exactly being…polite_ ).

"Paper," Anika says, "I'll do that."

"Thanks. So," Henry says, helping her by unloading the cans onto her till from the cart, "how are you?"

"I'm working at a super-store with a degree in International Relations," she says, with a chagrined smile, "so…great. As usual. How are _you_?"

Henry laughs as she bags, opening his wallet and pulling bills from it, walking around the till to set the cash next to the small mini-desk with the credit card machine, "Fine."

It's quiet, for a while, no one else in the store, the only sound is Nirvana playing from the speaker overhead (he's surprised it's not Top 40, but maybe she's the manager and… _she seems like the Nirvana type_ ).

"So," she says, pushing one full paper bag to the side before continuing to scan the purchase, "whose place are you trashing?"

"I…what?"

"Well," Anika continues, bemusedly, flicks a switch that stops the black plastic slip cover of the till from its chugging along, raising one index finger, "one, you're shopping at a Big Lots in the middle of the night. Two, you're shopping at a Big Lots in the outskirts of Los Angeles county, when I'm _guessing_ there are a few that are closer to you. You live in, what," she says, scanning him from head to toe, "West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, one of those places?"

"Ah," he says, with a nervous laugh, scratching the side of his jaw, "something like that, yeah."

"Your jacket is Hugo Boss. So you're either rich…which I'm _guessing_ from the diamond Rolex…or smart enough to know that people are less likely to suspect you're out of place if you _look_ rich. And important. Three, _since_ you're rich, it's not like you need to go to a discount store for our…" she alters her tone into faux chirpiness and starts to do jazz hands, "' _low, low_ prices'! And yet here you are. Four, you're buying an _ungodly_ amount of shaving cream. And, given the wealth, I doubt you're a barber buying stock. Five," she continues, sticking her thumb out, all digits of her left hand now displayed, glancing pointedly at the wad of cash on the payment desk, "you're paying in cash. Untraceable."

"You're…"

Anika raises her eyebrows (he notices a piercing there, too, now, silver and glinting in the fluorescent light of the store), crossing her arms.

"You're...observant," Henry says, "fuck."

"Mmhmm. Also, a tip," she says, with a shrug, flicking the till back on, it starts to move again and she continues to scan, "shaving cream's good for thickness and lasts longer, won't melt, _but_ …if you _really_ want to make a lasting impression, adding some whipped cream in there has the potential attract ants. And, as a bonus, it'll smell. Spoil."

"I will…huh. I will be right back."

"Aisle 6!" she yells, and he gives her a thumbs up in return.

* * *

Henry comes back with a full basket of her recommendation.

"30 of those," he says, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

" _Thank_ you," she says, punching something into her computer screen before only scanning one of them, and bagging the rest.

Anika reads his total, picks up the cash, her drawer pops out and she hands him his change.

"Do you have a plan?" she asks as he places the bills into the fold of his wallet.

"Excuse me?"

"Is it a home or office? Is there security…?"

"Office. And I don't…know."

" _Dummkopf_ ," she mutters under her breath, pulling the receipt from the machine, "want this?"

"Don't be rude," he scoffs, "and no, thank you."

" _Mmm_?" she asks, canting her head, crumpling the receipt in her hand before tossing it in a perfect arc into a trash bin to the right of her till.

"You just called me an idiot."

"You know German?"

"I do. As do you, I assume."

"International Relations. I know most languages spoken in Europe."

"Let me ask _you_ a question now," Henry says, crossing his arms, "how much do you make an hour?"

Anika offers a blank stare before she squints at him.

" _Please_ don't make me think about my life."

"I'm guessing that means not enough."

"That would be correct."

"What's your name?"

She points to her name tag with an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes.

"Full name?"

"Anika Cleves."

"Have you ever done office work, Miss Cleves?"

"Temp stuff, sure."

He grasps onto his new idea, hopes she agrees to it. She's right about the potential for security, of course, and he makes the quick calculation that most security guards are male, that a cute girl having 'car trouble' is a great distraction, that she's fluent in German at least and probably other languages, as well (he gets an honest vibe from her, doesn't think she lied about that), a great asset for the foreign clients that visit his office, and, well...

"Tell you what: I need a new secretary. I guarantee it pays better than," he says, waving a hand to the general area of the store, " _this_ , plus benefits. Help me with," he continues, pushing the end of the cart, now filled with paper bags, "this endeavor, and it's yours."

"Mmm," she says, wrinkling her nose, "I don't know. I'm closing. If I leave right now," she says, nodding upwards, "it's on camera. And I'll definitely be fired."

" _But_...you'll _definitely_ have a better job."

"How much does it pay?"

"Say...$25 an hour."

"Say $30," she counters, with a satisfied grin, and, when he groans, adds, "Being an accomplice to vandalism means potential jail time. And...you need me."

"Fine. Deal," he says, extending his hand, she takes it and they shake, hers is firm and confident, _the perfect kind_ , "but you can't wear the nose ring to work."

"Fine. Oh...buy plastic gloves, too, before we leave," Anika says, taking her name tag off, "a DNA test isn't likely for a petty crime, but it's not impossible."

" _How_ many times have you done this?"

"Not that many. That advice is from crime show binge watching."

* * *

**Saturday**

**2:00 AM**

Henry surveys the mountain of white, hands on his hips. It flows out of the doorway of Sander's office, and to add the cherry on top of his creation, he places the printed photo of the man he found online on top of the shaving cream. Then, tapes another to the door.

Red sharpie is drawn on both, a circle around his protruding stomach with the words "problem area".

He will, of course, blacklist Sander to every important connection he has. The drafts of all those emails are already saved, _but this needed to be done, too_.

No one gets to give his _daughter a complex about her looks_ , and to add insult to injury, this guy basically insulted _his_ nose, as well. 

_No one gets to disgrace the Tudor nose and get away with it._

And, more than that, _**no one** insults Elizabeth._

_It's **not allowed.**_

* * *

**Saturday**

**8:30 PM**

Henry whistles, cutting the tops off of the strawberries he brought over to Anne's and setting them aside on the wooden cutting board.

The television plays, low in the background, the sound drifting from the living room. Elizabeth is sitting on the couch, still, he thinks, cartons of take out spread out on the coffee table. Anne left to go pick up mail downstairs,

_How do you not have fruits or vegetables?_ he had yelled after looking through their fridge, gone back to the living room to see them looking at each other in confusion, then back at him, expressions blank, blinking owlishly.

_Why **would** we?_ Elizabeth finally asked, brow furrowed.

_To prevent scurvy, for starters_ , he had said.

_I drink a glass of orange juice when I feel potential scurvy kick in_ , Elizabeth had responded, wryly, crossing her legs, to Anne's ensuing giggle.

_You are severely shortening your life spans_ , he had groused, pulling his jacket from the hook, _I'm buying you fruit and vegetables_.

_We don't eat celery_ , Anne had responded, and Elizabeth shook her head, solemnly, as her mother sipped from her glass of wine, _so don't get that. Get cherries. Or strawberries._

_Good lord_ , Elizabeth said, turning her head to Anne, _is he a 'health person'? Do you think he like... **juices**?_

_I think **so**_ , Anne said, eyes sparkling, biting into oily spring roll into her mouth, _tres tragique, non?_

Elizabeth padded over to him, slippers on her feet, and reached up to squeeze his bicep.

_Oh my **God**_ , Elizabeth said, padding back towards the couch, _I think he **is**._

_Can you not_ , he said, peevishly, spinning his car keys around his finger, _at least wait to talk about me like I'm not here until I'm actually not here?_

_No, we cannot_ , Elizabeth said, then, changing the channel, _make sure to get potato chips, too._

So, he had bought strawberries and cherries. And potato chips (because, _apparently, greasy Chinese food was just not enough hydrogenated oil for the evening_ ). 

And now, he finds a glass bowl and pushes the cut ones off the cutting board, into the bowl, setting it aside on the island.

He turns around, notes the switch above the sink, and empties the green tops of the strawberries into it. Flicks the switch and waits for the garbage disposal to do its work.

It grinds, gurgles, the usual sounds such an invention is supposed to make when it's working.

The spout from the sink shoots a stream of water, shocking him, blasting him in the eyes. He yelps, jumps backwards.

"What the _fuck_?" he yells, as it continues to spray water, soaking his shirt, he maneuvers around the handle of the sink, flicks the hot and cold water on and off, turns the switch off but it keeps gurgling and the water keeps spraying, " _what is happening_?!"

"What's going on--"

"I don't know!" he screams, panicked, starting to unbutton his shirt, "it just started--"

"Oh my God!" Elizabeth shouts, rescuing the bowl of strawberries and placing them atop the chrome stovetop, ducking from the spray but getting hit anyway, "What did you _do_?"

"I don't _know_! I used the garbage disposal and it just started--"

"You used," she says, rubbing her temples, "the garbage disposal?"

"Yes!"

"You can't _do_ that!" she yells, over the sound of spraying water, "it _freaks out_ when you do that!"

" _Well_ ," Henry yells, ridding himself of his shirt and throwing the damp mess of it onto the tiles of the kitchen floor, " _why_ does it do that?"

"It just _does_ \--"

"Oh my God!" he hears Anne scream, she runs over to the sink, adjusts the spout, "oh, shit, what the shit--"

Henry stands, panting, as she unscrews the base of the spout, water soaking her in the process, but it doesn't stop the intensity or the pressure of the spray at all.

"Here," he says, bending down to snatch his shirt from the floor, he goes to the sink and ducks his head down, tying it over the spout, which at least quells the amount of water to a smaller stream, although his hair gets wet in the process.

Anne gets on her knees, pulls the doors under the sink open and he joins her there.

"We have to shift the gear here," she says, pointing to it, "it gets stuck, though, so help--"

He does, gritting his teeth, pushes his hand against it counterclockwise, as she does, until he hears the water stop running. Her hand brushes against his as she pulls it from the gear and she pulls it back to her side, quickly, as if she's been burned.

They stay, kneeling, panting in exertion, until Anne sits back against the island, head against it, too and he follows suit.

"Sorry," he says, and she laughs, sniffs.

Henry tugs at his wet undershirt, laughs, too.

Anne's gaze lowers, sweeps up and down his arms.

"You got...tattoos," she says, softly.

Black roses, complete with stems and thorns, descend from the side of his of his shoulder down to the outside of his arm, just above his elbow. They're intricate in detail, fully bloomed.

"Yeah," he replies, equally soft, looking down, "yeah, I did. Few years ago."

"Roses," Anne whispers, twisting a thick mass of damp, black hair in her hand.

"Yes, uh, for my fam--"

"Family crest. Right."

> _"We'll need a safe word," he says, unzipping his leather jacket, eyes never leaving hers._
> 
> _"Like what?" she asks, playing doubtful still._
> 
> _"Mmmm…'rose'," he decides, shrugging it off and tossing it on the floor._
> 
> _"What, are you a closeted Titanic fan or something?"_
> 
> _"You better stop mouthing off," Henry warns, "and, no. It's my family crest."_
> 
> _"That's not very sexy."_
> 
> _"Yeah," he says, sitting next to her in bed, nudging her chin upwards, gently, with his hand, "kind of the point."_

"Right," he says, clearing his throat, his line of sight falls to the front of her shirt, white, plastered to the contours of her body, revealing the outline of a red bra, "yes. That."

" _Sooo_ ," Elizabeth says, loudly, sitting on the floor next to them and crossing her legs, covered in sushi-pattern pajamas, smirking as both of them startle, "should I give you two a moment, or...?"

"Don't be rude, Elizabeth," Anne snaps, cheeks pink, "and no, of course we don't need a...why don't you go grab some towels," she says, standing up, "and a shirt, for Henry."

"I don't think we have one that's big enough...oh, wait!" she exclaims, snapping her fingers, "I have that Marina and the Diamonds concert tee, that one's huge. It's in my top drawer."

"You going to get up?" Anne says, glaring down at her, "or...?"

"I need a moment, actually," Elizabeth says, sweetly, "with my father."

"Alright," she says, evenly, taking a deep breath, then, smiling, " _fine_. I'll be right back."

* * *

Elizabeth stares at him, playing with the end of her red braid.

"Yes?" Henry asks, turned around to face her, his back against the doors under the sink.

" _So_ ," she says, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, hands folded, "not to be _that_ person, but...you have a girlfriend, right?"

"No," he says quickly, then, "oh, well...sort of. I don't know."

"Mmm. Well, being thirteen, I can't really say I'm a relationship expert but I feel like...you _should_ know?"

"We're on a break, I guess," he says, with a shrug, and she leans in close to his arm, examining the tattoos.

"You 'guess'," Elizabeth says, giggling, then traces the outline of the inked flowers on his arms, "yeah, _okay_...these are cool."

"Thanks."

"Kinda lame, though, like...kinda hypocritical that you were so mean to Robin about _his_ tattoo."

"Oh, I wasn't," he stammers, tapping his hand against the kneecap of his jeans, "I wasn't _mean_ , I don't think. Was I mean?"

She lowers her eyelids, almost completely closed, and gives a small smile.

"Well...you weren't exactly...nice. I _think_ you know that, though."

" _Well_ ," he says, defensively, crossing muscular arms, "he's a minor. It's not really the same."

"Who's a minor?" Anne asks, wearing a new, dry shirt, and Henry offers Elizabeth his hand, helps her stand up.

Anne throws a towel to her daughter, then Henry.

"Who are you talking about?" she asks, again.

"Robin," Elizabeth says, unweaving her braid and patting her hair dry with the towel.

Elizabeth walks over to the stovetop and picks up the bowl of strawberries.

"These _better_ ," she calls out over her shoulder, leaving the kitchen, "be worth it."

* * *

**Sunday**

**9:31 PM**

"Mom?"

"Yes?" Anne says, looking up from her novel, open on a pillow above her knees, pillow resting behind her back on the headboard.

She's in bed, the covers pulled over her, a cup of tea on the nightstand. Her lamp is on, the ceiling light off.

Elizabeth thinks she looks really, really beautiful without makeup. Right before bed, all calm and sleepy, her hair all clean and shiny, eyes wide and soft. But then, she always thinks her mom is. She hopes she grows up to look like her, some day. Although she'll never have the raven hair, of course, at least the red hair makes her unique, too... _just in a different way_.

She sits down next to her on the bed, grabs the pillow that's not being used and hugs it to her chest.

"He is," Elizabeth says, taking a deep breath and a pause for emphasis, "and, this is a direct quote: 'on a break'."

"Pardon?" Anne asks, squinting, sliding her bookmark into place and closing her book, setting it next to the cup.

"Henry," she says, grinning, "is on a break. With his girlfriend."

"And I care...why?"

"I thought you might," she says, with a shrug, hiding her smile behind the pillow, "that's all."

"I don't," she says, testily.

" _Right_. Well, just so you know," she continues, biting her thumbnail, dark eyes glittering with mischief, "if you like, want to hook up with him--"

" _Lizzie_!" she scolds, smacking her on her side with a pillow.

"I'm just _saying_ \--"

"' _Hook up_ '?! Who's even _saying_ that around you," she asks, flustered, "you shouldn't be...saying that. _Or_ hearing it."

"Uh, everyone," she says, rolling her eyes, "I go to Catholic school. Not Amish or Mormon school. _Please_."

"God help me," Anne mutters, rubbing her eyes with her hands, "well...you don't need to worry about it, alright?"

"No, I'm not worried. I'm just letting you know that I don't like, _care_ if you do," she says, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, "just, like... _try_ not to make a baby--"

" _Elizabeth Mary Boleyn_ , do _not_ \--"

"Or, like, wait until I've graduated high school to have one," she says, ducking from the pillow her mother throws, "because," she continues, giggling as Anne gets out of bed and chases her out of the room with another pillow, "I am _very_ accustomed to being an only child and I need the attention."

" _Go_ ," Anne shouts, red faced, pointing down the hall, "to _bed_ , Elizabeth!"

"It's not even ten yet, Mom--"

" _Go to bed!_ "


	5. angel's face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a lie of omission, or a part-truth, a truth but only greyly, and Elizabeth's never been much a fan of the grey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “…such beauty of mind and body is combined as to surprise and astonish. Grand stature, suited to his exalted position, showing the superiority of mind and character; a face like an angel’s, so fair it is…”
> 
> actual excerpt from an actual quote about henry viii by an ambassador that was like, gay for him or smthing (that or a younger henry just was Really, Really Hot, despite popular modern opinion)

**October 10, 2016, Monday, 2:50 PM, Plantagenet Productions**

Elizabeth sits in an armchair next to a table at the Starbucks of Henry's building. The chair on the other side of the table is covered with Robin's jacket and watched by her with a vigilant eye as he waits for their drinks near the bar.

They're definitely the youngest people here, she notices, and the rest of the patrons buzz with self-importance and business, ordering drinks with their phones pressed to their ears, or talking into the little square upon the wires of their headphones.

"Green tea latte," Robin says, setting hers down before his own.

He takes a careful seat, stretching his legs out before taking a swig of his own drink.

"Never say I don't give good service," he teases, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in the chair.

"Do you think he _knows_ ," Elizabeth asks, gnawing her fingernails, "that all I want from him is money?"

"Uh…you mean Henry, I assume?"

"Duh."

" _Well_ ," Robin drawls, " _do_ you?"

"Of _course_ ," she scoffs, easily reading the skepticism in his voice.

"Have you told him so?"

"No."

"Then I assume he doesn't."

"Huh," she says, ripping the cardboard sleeve around her cup, "okay. Good."

* * *

**October 10, 2016, Monday, 3:00 PM, Plantagenet Productions**

Elizabeth unlocks the door of the bathroom stall, hands held up as she walks over to the row of sinks.

A blonde woman stands in front of one of the gilt framed mirrors, pressing a peach colored lipstick over her mouth, bag of makeup open on the bathroom counter.

Elizabeth washes her hands, carefully, humming the 'happy birthday' tune as she does (a habit copied from her mother) before patting them down with one of the cloth towels.

"Your hair's a _lovely_ color," the woman says, capping her lipstick.

"Oh," Elizabeth says, touching a strand, "thank you."

"Is it natural?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Beautiful."

She blushes at the praise, mutters a _thank you_ , again.

"Do you brush your hair, sweetie?"

_Less nice_.

"Not always," Elizabeth says, crossing her arms, self-consciously, "it tends to get more…frizzy, when I brush it too much."

"Oh, I have something for that," she says, smiling as she rummages in her bag, "if you use a high-quality one it can get through all the…thickness. Here, try it."

The woman's heels click against the marble floor as she walks towards her, handing her a hairbrush with a silver back. Elizabeth takes it from her manicured hand, gives her hair a few strokes in the mirror.

It does make a difference, actually. Her hair is now more silky, less brillo-pad, and she's shyly grateful despite the condescension as she hands it back to her.

* * *

Jane waits until Elizabeth leaves the restroom before opening her purse.

She pulls a Ziploc bag from it, opening it out on the counter.

She looks over her shoulder before she pulls the copper strands from the brush, placing them in the open plastic before sealing it with her fingers. 

* * *

**October 11, 2016, Tuesday, 3:30 PM, Plantagenet Productions**

"Mr. Tudor! Wonderful, this is Melanie Abrams, I'll let you take over in the interviewing process if you so--"

"What?" Henry asks, distractedly, reading the words on the screen of his phone.

He's not really sure why Cromwell's in his office right now, or what he's talking about, but at the moment he doesn't really care:

> **From: Anne Boleyn**
> 
> **To: Henry Tudor**
> 
> There is no godly or earthly way to prevent a 13-year-old girl from listening to Taylor Swift-- and if you consider the lyrics 'too racy', God help you, honestly.
> 
> **From: Henry Tudor**
> 
> **To: Anne Boleyn**
> 
> I'm sorry, have you _listened_ to Taylor Swift???
> 
> "I'll do anything you say/if you say it with your hands" ???
> 
> "No one has to know what we do/his hands are in my hair/his clothes are in my room" ???
> 
> What is THAT?
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> **To: Henry**
> 
> You need to relax.
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> **To: Anne**
> 
> I'll relax when that boy that looks like the Coppola kid from that movie stops following her around everywhere.
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> From what movie?
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> I don't know, the one with the girl that goes to the private school…she gets a makeover and the bald man is mean about her eyebrows.
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> …can you be more specific?
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> I don't KNOW, Anne, the one with the girl and she turns out to be a princess and her grandmother is Mary Poppins.
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> …the 'Princess Diaries'?
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> Yes, that one.
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> You watched…the Princess Diaries.
> 
> **From: Henry.**
> 
> Yes, so?
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> Why?
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> It was on her likes.
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> So you, a 37-year-old man, watched the Princess Diaries.
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> Correct.
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> By yourself.
> 
> **From: Henry**
> 
> Yes.  
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> Oh…my God.

"Mr. Tudor?" Cromwell inquires.

He looks up and sees a woman in her thirties sitting in a chair at his desk, an expectant smile plastered on her face.

"Oh, no, no," Henry says, tapping a response out on his screen, "I already took care of that. She's actually already at the desk out front--"

"That was the _temp_ ," Cromwell says, brow furrowing, "sir, it hasn't been filled--"

"No, it _was_ filled, actually sorry for the confusion…she was just able to start this afternoon, is all, temp's gone. But," he says, distractedly (trying to type something remarkably witty and coming up with only the words _'shut up'_ , which he erases), "we have a list of employment opportunities on the website, if you need it I think it's on the--"

A sob of anguish interrupts him and startles him to such a degree that his grasp on his cell weakens, but Cromwell is there at the right moment (as he tends to be) to catch it and prevent a collision with the floor.

"It's just," she says, crying, yanking a tissue from a box on his desk, "really, really hard out there, you know?"

"I'm sorry, I should've-- yeah of course, it is," Henry says, awkwardly, bristling under Cromwell's expression (somehow _always_ a mixture of bland and judgmental, but his competence is greater than the annoyance Henry feels at that _all-too-familiar visage_ ), "um…"

Whilst her head is in her hand, elbow resting against the arm of the chair, Henry mouths ' _help_ ' and Cromwell nods, ushers her out while saying something about H.R., passing Henry his phone back on the way ( _the man's always been stellar at multitasking, after all_ ).  

Henry sighs, running his hand through his hair before taking a seat.

It is, ( _of course_ ) once he's seated and feeling a _little_ more settled, that his best friend comes busting into his office like a hurricane.

"How did you _get in_ \--"

"Hello to you too," Charles Brandon drawls, depositing some sort of bag on Henry's desk with a loud thump, "and I'm on your special _list_ ," he crows, mussing up Henry's hair to a further degree before taking a seat across from him, "the laminated one, with the _photos_ , your new secretary used it. "

"You're on my enter-without-announcement-in-case-of-emergencies list, not--"

" _Well_ ," Charles says, with a shrug, "I told her it was an emergency. By the way-- what did you _do_? Not the _first_ time I've seen a chick crying after leaving a room with you, but--"

"Misunderstanding of a _professional_ nature, asshole," Henry snaps, kicking him under the table.

"I just got these dry cleaned, fuck you very much," Charles says, slanting his legs away from him.

" _Please_ , you got those slacks at _Target_ \--"

"They're imported Italian-- like _I_ buy any of my own clothes anymore," he scoffs, "have you _met_ your sister?"

"This isn't," Henry says, hands templed over the bridge of his nose, "a good time, Charles, I'm expecting--"

A sharp yelp sounds from the bag.

"What…is… _that_?"

"Mary's new project," Charles says, rolling his eyes as he leans towards what Henry can _now_ see is a carrier, "rescue dogs."

"Why is it _here_?"

"The other one's with a dog walker, this one has separation anxiety, and likes _me_ particularly, so…we're working on it….I thought you _liked_ dogs. What's _your_ problem?" he asks, reaching across the desk to grab a chip from an opened bag on the desk.

Henry swats at his hand, but Charles manages to grab a few anyway.

"I'm _meeting someone_ \-- _why_ didn't you close the goddamn door?" Henry grouses, getting up from his seat and walking over to close it.

"Why do _you_ sound like a _Panic! At The Disco_ song--"

"Anika! Oh my God, _hi_!"  

He pauses, hand on the doorknob, before releasing it.

Anika stands behind her circular desk, Elizabeth gathered within a hug in her arms. 

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"I work here now! What are _you_ doing here?"

* * *

Elizabeth stands with her former German teacher (probably her favorite teacher _of all time_ , but her school cut the German class because of low enrollment and a series of budget cuts last year), hands held in hers, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement.

She leans up to whisper (although she doesn't have to extend herself very far) in her ear: "Henry's my dad."

* * *

"Wow," Anika whispers, heavily ringed hand over her chest, sneaking a glance towards the office, "I mean…go Anne, but…damn."

Anika gives a wave to Henry, currently standing in the doorway with crossed arms.

"You two…know each other?"

Elizabeth starts to explain that they do, effusively and with large hand gestures, one of which stills as soon as Henry's friend joins him in the doorway. She stops midsentence, mouth open.

* * *

"Hello," Charles says, dipping his head forward (a strange instinct towards obeisance had come over him as soon as he laid eyes on the slim figure to Anika's left, a regality in her posture).

"I'm…wow," she stammers, "sorry, just-- you bear a _striking_ resemblance to James Dean. But I'm sure you've heard that, before."

" _Thank_ you. I get that _all_ the time, actually."

"No you don't," Henry says, arms crossed.

"Uh, _yeah_ , I do," Charles replies, turning to face Henry, his own arms crossed.

"From _who_?"

" _People_. Why are you doubt--"

"That's your dog."

"What?"

"Your dog is _running_ \--"

"Ah, _hell_!"

* * *

Elizabeth has turned down five corridors and is rounding the corner of the sixth when she stops in her tracks. The cocker spaniel is now ensconced in someone's arms, and it takes her a while to place why the person is familiar:

It's the blonde woman that was in the restroom yesterday, the one who delivered backhanded compliments and a hairbrush. An azure gaze settles on something on Elizabeth's left, a smile of familiarity creasing her face. Elizabeth turns her head to follow its direction and sees Henry's handsome friend, panting in exertion and holding his side with one hand, offering the woman a sort of half-wave, half-salute gesture and a dazzling grin of his own.

 "Yours, Charles?" she calls out, giggling as the dog licks her palm.

"My better half's," he says wryly, pulling a leash out from the pocket of his suit.

"I should've guessed," she quips, tapping the bell on the dog's collar before passing it over.

* * *

"Hi, again," Elizabeth says, shyly, hand cupping her elbow with one hand.

The older woman regards her with such a probing look that she finds herself discomfited, although she's not certain why. There was what seemed genuine warmth aimed towards Henry's friend, but now she feels only surface politeness from her, a small and close-lipped smile.

 "Are you here for this?" she asks, gesturing to a panel of girls her age sitting in a glass-walled office to the right of them, pieces of paper on their laps.

"Uh…no, what is it?"

"Oh it's a casting call-- Henry!"

* * *

Henry waves in return, making quick strides towards them, panic snagging in his chest as he tries to assess the situation as quickly as possible:

Elizabeth's chin resting somewhere above her shoulder as she looks back at him, brow creased, Jane with a simper (which he's realized _she does…simper, that is… quite a bit, and has it really never bothered him before now_? is he only bothered because he finds he now prefers smirks?), shoulders thrown back, a glint in her bright blue eyes that he finds worrisome. Charles fusses, a distance apart from them, with the dog, tugging on the leash towards people walking through the hall.

"Hello," Henry says brightly, putting a hand over Elizabeth's shoulder, "have you two met--"

"Not _yet_ ," Jane says sweetly, " _I'm_ Henry's--"

"Marketing executive," he finishes, a galvanized edge to his voice, "Jane Seymour."

* * *

"Elizabeth Boleyn. I'm actually--"

"Henry's daughter," Jane finishes, ending their handshake with a firm squeeze before releasing, "I know."

"You… _do_?" she asks, swiveling on her heel to tilt her gaze up to Henry's, one eyebrow askance.

"Yes! He didn't tell how _gorgeous_ you were, though," Jane says, winking at him before turning her attention back to her.

"Thank you," Elizabeth says flatly, squinting, tugging one of her sleeves down to her wrist.

_Have you two met? Not yet._

It's a lie of omission, or a part-truth, a truth but only greyly (they never officially introduced themselves, sure, but the swiftness of Jane's _not yet_ suggested that they had never encountered each other ever), and Elizabeth's never been much a fan of the grey.

There's been a pit of guilt in her stomach twisting at her own recent omission-- she does not abide grey truths in others, and even less so in herself.

Then there's the way her jaw tightened at Henry's interruption, the way she didn't acknowledge or validate Elizabeth's _hi, again_ …she's already imagining telling Robin everything since their restroom encounter-- he has a knack for blowing away the grey on anything.

"You get that from your dad, I suppose."

"Yeah, or my _mom_."

"Hold this," Charles interjects, jostling past them and shoving his leash in Henry's hand as he keeps walking, "she's calling, I gotta take this…yeah, hello? No, he's here with me, the _other_ one's with the walker… _no_ , I didn't tell Margaret we named him James….well, I don't _know_ _how_ she knows, maybe _you_ told her and forgot…"

* * *

The dog tugs to follow Charles and Henry curses under his breath, scrambling to pick him up and deposit him back in his friend's arms because _did he ask?_ , but he doesn't miss the pointed look Jane shoots him on her last sentence:

"Well, I wouldn't _know_. Because _I_ haven't met her yet."

* * *

Elizabeth gives as big a smile as she can muster, all-teeth, as she thumbs through her phone before settling on a photo of her mother (one in which _she is stunning_ , which was _harder to narrow down than find itself_ ) and flipping it upright so that it faces Jane's line of vision.

" _Well_ ," she coos, voice rising sweetly in a pitch-perfect imitation of the tone she just heard, " _now_ …you do." 

* * *

"They're at daycare still…we can _afford_ the late fee, please stop _screaming_ …yes you are. Yes you are! If I had you on speaker phone right now I would be _dead_ , yes you _are_. No, he did _not_ …and no, I didn't introduce myself, what does she look like-- _oh_. Right now? Fine."

Elizabeth whips around after Charles taps her shoulder, eyes black and blazing, face flushed.

"I _can't_ shake her hand," he continues, cocker spaniel scooped in the crook of one arm, "I'm holding _your_ dog and I'm on the phone with _you_."

A woman with a clipboard has pulled Jane aside, Henry is gesturing for him and Elizabeth to follow him back to his office.

They do, and Charles holds the phone away from his ear long enough to say, "I'm on the phone with your aunt."

"Mary?" Elizabeth asks, arms crossed.

"Right! So, you know. That I'm your…eh…married to her, which makes us…something. Related; in some manner."

"She's not married to you, she's--"

"Oh, no she is, much as she threatens to be otherwise-- why? Have you heard something-- _ow_!" he yelps, jerking his head to the left, away from her, as Henry releases Charles' left arm from a pinch to make gestures of the _cut it out_ variety near his own neck.

"She's already married," Elizabeth continues, pace slowing as she unpockets her phone, "her wife's name is Isabel Blount."

" _Really_?"

She shows him a photo of the couple on her screen, both wearing white dresses, flowers in their hair.

"Huh…want to take him?" Charles asks as she begins to coo over the dog, and she nods and scoops him up in her arms.

"We're on the edge of a golden world," he says, putting the phone back to his ear, "I tell you what…no, I'm not being 'gross', I'm just _happy_ for them-- _did_ I have you on speaker phone? Really? My bad. I'm-- yes, yes, yes I'll go pick them up right now! _I said yes_!"

"Don't forgot your--Charles!" she shouts, laughter pealing like bells.

Henry stands, groaning, palms pressed over his eyes, back against the wall displaying the elevator doors.

Charles mouths a _thank you_ as she passes the dog over, and halves a crowd in front of an elevator on its descent with wide-set shoulders and few apologies, offering a wave goodbye before pressing the button for the lobby. 

* * *

  **October 12, 2016, Wednesday, 6:45 AM**

"Mom."

" _Mmph_ …what?"

" _MOM_!"

"Darling," Anne whimpers, yanking her quilt over her face and turning on her stomach in bed, "why are you trying to murder Mommy?"

"We have to _go_!"

"You have a late start," Anne groans, curling up onto her side, "it's _Tuesday_."

" _No_ , that was yesterday, this is _Wednesday_."

"What? No--"

Elizabeth shoves the screen of her phone so close to Anne's gaze that her eyes blur. She focuses, eventually, on the date.

_Wednesday indeed_.

As a bonus, that means she actually has the day off, which is good-- her head is spinning, as if she's hungover even though the only thing she drank last night was tea.

As a negative, it means she only has fifteen minutes to get ready.

"No, no, no," Anne says, reluctantly sitting upright, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, "Bess, grab me something from the dryer, I ran it last night--"

"It fritzed. Again. I hung up your dresses and stuff," Elizabeth says, handing her a cup of coffee, which she takes with a mumbled thanks as she sifts through her closet.

"They're still wet, oh my God…! Shit!"

"Well, it'll dry in the sun, it's hot today--"

"I'm not wearing a _wet dress_ on the train--"

"Just take your car!"

"It's in the shop!"

"Well, we have to go or we'll be late, and _you_ have to go with me, that's _your_ rule, so just--"

"I'll be out in a minute," Anne snaps, "wait by the front door, please."

"Okay, please _hurry_!"

* * *

" _What_ are you wearing?"

"It was the only clean outfit," Anne says, hair tie in between her teeth, pulling a coat that reaches the middle of her thighs on and tying its belt, "let's go."

"You know there are like, _a lot_ of kids that take the train by themselves, right?" Elizabeth says, dryly, double checking the contents of her backpack before zipping it off and sliding it back on her shoulder.

Anne gives a tight smile, piling her hair atop her head before tying it into a high bun.

"Brand new information," she says, grabbing her purse from the dining room table.

"It's like, eighty degrees outside--"

"We're _leaving_!" Anne says, grabbing her keys from the hook.

" _Fine_!"

* * *

It's October, but Los Angeles knows no season. Anne remembers numerous occasions walking from the train station at Hollywood and Vine when she was twenty years old, wearing a blazer, tights, and a pencil skirt, at eight in the morning, the sun beating down on her nevertheless.

The outfit had been necessary for the days she was a paid audience member on a court television show (an occasional gig she picked up on her days without classes, minimum wage), but uncomfortable: sweat slid down her face and neck in rivulets as she made her way to Sunset and Bronson studios, despite the early hour, even sometimes in the middle of November.

And so sweat trickles down her face, now, the stems of her sunglasses damp with it, her coat (necessary, to disguise the outfit she'd had to pull on) certainly not helping matters.

A Mercedes signals before pulling up to the curb, slowing down to a stop beside the two of them before its window rolls down:

"Need a ride?" Henry asks, hand lazily draped over the wheel.

_No_ , Anne says as the same time Elizabeth says _yes_.

"Excuse us," Elizabeth chirps, taking Anne's hand and pulling them to the far end of the sidewalk, "we'll be _right_ back."

"I don't want to be _late_ ," she whines once her foot is almost touching the edge of the lawn of another complex, turning to her mother with imploringly wide eyes.

"Okay…then I'll see you later," Anne leans in to whisper, the words scratching her dry throat, slipping her hand away from the small of Elizabeth's back.

"No way! I have a French exam, I need you to prep me."

"Elizabeth, I'm not--"

" _Please_ ," Elizabeth says, hands wrapped around the ends of her two braids so tightly that her knuckles are white. Anne absorbs neediness in her tone and the neediness inherent in the gesture and the rest of her sentence ( _I'm not feeling well_ ) all but dies on her tongue.

* * *

"You _cold?_ " Henry teases, gaze flicking to the rearview mirror, viewing the belt of Anne's coat tied in a bow at her waist in the reflection.

"I'm fine," Anne says, shifting in her seat as she reads from the notecard Elizabeth wrote on and passed her from the backseat.

"You're sweating," he says, frowning.

" _Thank_ you. Light's green."

He pushes on the gas as she extends her arm to the backseat, hands the notecard back and tells Elizabeth _wrong tense_.

"Well," she asks, face scrunched as she rereads the card, "what's the _right_ tense?"

"Not the one you used."

" _Mom_!"

"Elizabeth."

* * *

On the drive back to her apartment, Anne takes advantage of Henry's preoccupation with a red light to rid herself of the coat, a heavy burden of a blanket that's been sticking to the tops of her thighs for the duration of the ride, despite how bracingly cold the A/C has felt against her face.

"Not a word."

He laughs, hand over his face, elbow on the wheel as they remain stuck in traffic.

"Not a _god_ damn word--"

"Okay… _Minnie_ \--"

"Shut. Up," she snaps, crossing her arms over the rhinestone decal of Minnie Mouse.

"How old is that shirt?"

"I got it at Disneyland before I met _you_ , so…old."

"You just dissed both of us, sweetheart."

"A relic of a time," she murmurs, picking at the fraying edges of her denim shorts, "before an angel's face."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"I can see your pockets."

"Congrats. That's _almost_ like a bra," she says with a fake gasp, placing both hands on the plastic glove compartment as he pushes on the brake and the car jerks forward (the one in front of them made a sudden stop that required it of him).

"Are you okay?"

"I'm-- fine," she says weakly, eyelashes fluttering closed before she places her forehead against her knees.

Then, the feeling of ice on her skin-- two of his fingers, sliding in the sweat collected on the nape of her neck. Her stomach twists to a spiral, tight and hot.

"You're _freezing_ ," she accuses.

"No, you're burning up-- are you sick?"

" _No_. Are _you_?"

"Vertigo?"

Anne sits back up, slowly, eyes an empty cup in the drink holders in between them. He follows the direction of her gaze and flicks the lid off of it with his thumb before pushing it towards her mouth.

She clasps it with both hands as she heaves, leftover bitter coffee and water sputtering out from dryly parched lips, sweating bullets as the sun beats through the glass windows, cursing _Los Angeles traffic_ and _parents in California that don't immunize_ and   _her alarm clock_ and _a God that is allowing someone she slept with to see her in the least attractive light humanly possible._

To add insult to injury, _the way his arms look with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, and well…she'd probably be sweating regardless_.

She sits upright again, wipes the back of her mouth with her hand and asks, primly though in a rasp:

"Lid, please?"

* * *

"How long have you been feeling--"

"I'm not sick," she says, smiling wanly as she pushes the plastic lid on the cup, "the milk in my coffee was probably just bad or something--"

"You look _terrible_."

Her eyes are glazed, a sheen of glitter over black pools, a sheen of perspiration over every inch of exposed skin, face pale and drawn and nearly grey.

"You look amazing, I hate you."

"You do not."

"I do. This is my street."

"Yes, I _know._ I parked."

"Okay, well," Anne murmurs, pressing her thumb into the seatbelt release, several times, with no success, "good-bye, then, have a nice day."

* * *

Anne barely registers that he gets out of the car first, not until she hears him shut the door (not even a slam, but the sound of it rings in the vicinity of _something like her brain_ nonetheless, making her wince).

She feels a burst of victory as she manages to unbuckle her seatbelt, cut short when Henry opens the passenger door for her (because she thought she had… _opened it, already but no? nope!_ ).

The back of her legs stick to the leather of the seat as she tries to swing them over the side.

His eyebrows are pinched together, a prettily sculpted face wrought in… _disgust, probably_ \-- _did she say he had an angel face, earlier_? _Aloud_? 

_I've felt those_ , she thinks, unabashedly staring at the high plates of his cheekbones, sweeping her stare down to the broad musculature of his shoulders and chest, _and those, too,_   _but so long ago it feels more like a dream or a fairytale than the past._

"You can go now," she says, "it's okay."

He shakes his head.

Vaguely, she registers him helping her out of the car, his hands smooth and dry against hers, pulling her up.

* * *

Henry presses the number for her floor on the elevator and the doors shut.  

"Do you have a thermometer?" he asks.

"In my purse? No."

"In your _bathroom_?"

"I should. Why?"

"Thinking ahead."

"I'm _not_ sick," she calls over her shoulder, stumbling out of the elevator and then the hall, "You don’t need to come in."

"You _are_ sick."

"Oh, yeah? How do you know?"

"You threw up in my car."

"I bet you say that," Anne continues, pulling on the locked doorknob of her apartment, "to _all_ the girls."

"Actually, no. And you need your keys," Henry says, jangling them in the pocket of her coat, thrown over his shoulder.

"Give them," she says, outstretching an open palm, "to _me_."

"No," he says shortly, sliding one into the lock, smiling when he finds it gives on the first try.

Anne manages to duck under his arm into her apartment, making a beeline for her kitchen.

* * *

_Cold, cold, cold…bliss._

"All I can find is Kids' Tylenol, and it expired in…2014."

" _Aaaaah_!"

She jerks out from under the faucet on the kitchen, startled by his voice.

"Why did you _scream_?"

"Why are you still _here_ ," she snaps, yanking at a dishtowel on the rung of her oven and dabbing at her face with it (there's mascara running down her face, she's _sure, there's no way there's not after sweat and a steady stream of tap water_ ), "don’t you have work?"

"I do-- I actually have a meeting I _can't_ miss, but after that--"

"Okay, great, go to that," Anne says, throwing the towel on the floor and kneeling to it to open her freezer, rummaging around in it until her hand closes over an ice pack, "I'm going to take a nap and then I'll be fine."

"I'll send someone for you, later."

"Uh-huh," Anne says, kicking her shoes off in the middle of the floor and sidestepping him to get to her bathroom, "yes, see you _later_!"

* * *

Henry washes his hands, briskly and with dish soap at the kitchen sink.

He tries to pat them dry on the front of his button-down shirt, disgruntled (the only dishtowel was the one she touched and threw on the floor), and shouts out a good-bye before leaving, keys in hand.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobs* happy bday to the lovely shannon; who i promised this to as a gift a while ago!  
> and susanne, who i hope enjoys it for HER birthday too even tho the shippier moments are To Come! next chapter, I Super Promise
> 
> http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/156967002292/such-beauty-of-mind-and-body-is-combined-as-to
> 
> anyways...everything happens, so much. it's 1:30 am and idk what im saying but im love you all!!
> 
> p.s. to clarify: the mistaken identity thing is due to that Elizabeth's aunt (who she knows) Mary Boleyn shares the same name as Henry's sister, Mary Tudor, which we know but SHE doesn't know and Charles Doesn't Know


	6. over the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I meant the clothes, sweetheart.”

**Wednesday, Boleyn apartment**

"Bess! Are you playing hooky?"

Henry follows the unfamiliar voice, plastic bag crinkling in hand, to the living room.

A shirtless, dark-haired man sits on the couch with a degree of familiarity that borders on contempt. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, eyes following the page of the book he's holding ( _Pride and Prejudice_ ) behind eyeglasses with black square frames, novel balanced on one knee.

He fiddles with a pen tucked in the crook above a large ear, twisting the capped end of it.

A remembered snippet of a conversation with Elizabeth, one of the many they've had in his office, starts ringing in his mind like an alarm:

> _You know that trope-- dark hair, dark eyes, looks a little dangerous? That's her type, I guess. (her)_
> 
> _Not tall, dark, and handsome? (him)_
> 
> _Well, that too. Tall, dark, and intellectually handsome, I'd say. She likes men that read Austen. (her)_

"Who the fuck are you?"

Henry is more rattled by his own accusatory question than the man on the couch (or so it seems from where he stands: the stranger blinks once, then twice before closing the book shut, the corners of his mouth turning up in a not-quite-smile that feels… _familiar_ , in a way Henry has trouble placing); flinching as soon as the words leave him.

"One of my students told me that Caroline Bingley is a lesbian," the man says easily ( _as if that answered the question_ ), easing his feet off the table before easing the book onto it, "and I _wanted_ to see it, I really did...but-- alas!"

He claps his hands together, his own punctuation in his own language, unfolding himself from his seat in the same movement.

Henry watches, the handles of his grocery bag now clenched in his fist, as he saunters down the hallway and hollers:

“Did you forget to cancel a date, darling?”

He doesn’t… _follow him_ , exactly, but he drops the bag on the table, and walks…closer. Not in the hallway but at the mouth of it so that he’s in earshot, frowning, arms crossed as he listens:

“What?” Anne asks, voice a warble.

“It’s not the _first_ time I’ve gotten a ‘who-the-fuck-are-you’ from one of your dates, and I must say its novelty is starting to wear a _bit_ thin—“

“Why didn’t you just _tell_ him if he asked—“

“And you _do_ know how much I _adore_ novelty in life—“

“You are _so_ annoying—“

“I _made you_ ginger tea, and I am a _delight_ …and as for your previous inquiry: a) where would be the fun in that, and b) I might well have if the question had one less fuck in it. Why should _I_ reward Mr. Gucci for his rudeness?”

An alarm chirps, distant and tinny, three distinct beeps. Henry hears footfalls in the hall and jolts out of the way, jostling a vase at the edge of the table under the mirror in front of the hallway in his haste.

Luckily he (just barely) catches it before it falls, which earns him a:

“Smooth,” commented by _whoever the fuck just called him…Mr. Gucci_ , “are you coming or not?”

Henry follows behind him, although he’s not quite sure why ( _sheepishness? the way his question didn’t really sound like one?_ ) stops when he stops and stoops at the dryer.

After opening it, pulling out a paisley-patterned button-down and closing it shut, he turns to face Henry, pulling it over his arms.

“One: the lid on an ice-water I got from the Starbucks near here came loose, and Anne’s apartment is closer to where I work than mine.”

“How do you know—“

“ _Why_ are you interrupting my list? I’m _getting_ there… _two_ : I’m _married_ ,” he says, raising his left hand, fidgeting with all raised fingers in such a way that the gleam of gold on his third catches the light, “and three: I’m her brother.”

_Fuck._

He feels stupid for not noticing the resemblance before: the same thick dark hair, the exacting almost-smile, the dimples…

“George, right?”

“Yes, Gucci.”

“I’m not _wearing_ any Gucci—“

“But you own some. I can tell,” George says, pushing the cuff of his shirt up and looking down at his watch, “and I’m late!”

He swans around Henry to retrieve his book from the table, shouts a farewell to Anne and makes his way to the front door.

George opens it, but before leaving, turns around and says:

“I’d say ‘nice to meet you’, but…it was mainly just weird.”

* * *

“Anne?”

“Anne’s not here.”

Henry knocks on her bedroom door again, agitation making a knot in his throat.

“Are you a woodpecker?”

“I’d like to think I’m more sizeable than that,” he says, chuckling, ear to the door, “are you decent? Can I come in?”

“I’m _disgusting..._ but I am fine.”

“You don’t need anything?”

Silence, then, only the sound of the refrigerator humming, his own breathing.

“Water,” she says, finally, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Coming right up.”

* * *

Anne tries to unwind the sheet on her bed from its ropy twists, has just managed (but barely, and not without a great effort that leaves her feeling more drained than she thought possible) to sit upright against the headboard when he knocks again.

“Come in.”

He enters carefully, water bottle in hand. Glances at the walls, her framed art, briefly before shaking his head and setting it on her nightstand.

Henry stands in front of the window as she drinks, arms crossed, hands over the dark green rolled up cuffs of his shirt. He’s tieless, she notes (he was wearing one before, in the car), but otherwise dressed the same.

“Sorry, by the way,” she says, capping the water with a sniff and setting it back down.

“For?”

“George…I assume he was rude?”

He shrugs, smiles without showing teeth:

“Yes, but….to be fair, I was rude first.”

“He’s just overprotective.”

Anne runs a hand over a bare arm (she hasn’t changed herself yet, so has today now been teased by _two men_ regarding the Minnie Mouse shirt), not acknowledging the curious tilt of his head at that (the unasked _why_ is not one she particularly wants to answer). She turns her palm over and finds it damp, frowns at it.

“I have to take a shower,” she says, moving the sheet past her waist (then yanking it back up when she remembers all she has on underneath is underwear), “don’t you have work?”

“I left. You look like you have a fever, maybe I should take you to a doctor—“

“I’m sure I don’t. And I don’t want…to go anywhere.”

“I can—“

His cell phone rings an interruption, he winces and checks the screen.

“You can take that,” Anne says, “um…actually…I’m not wearing pants, and I really _do_ need to shower,” she croaks, voice a rasp now, nodding to her bathroom door, “so if you could…”

“ _Right_ ,” he says, _and_ …remains by the window but turns his back (which… _whatever_ , she trusts _him not to look_ and also she doesn’t _really care_ at his point) and answers his phone.

* * *

Anne turns the water various degrees of warmth, unable to find one that truly feels comfortable…it is too hot, too cold, too hot…she settles on mildly warm and gives up on standing, brings a bar of soap and shampoo down with her, sits on the floor of the bath while water sprays over her knees.

She sits like that for a while, half-heartedly running the soap over her skin, her head resting against the shower wall.

* * *

After what feels like an age (she sat there until the water turned cold) she gets out and wraps a towel around herself and walks back out to her bedroom.

The door is shut, and there is a pile of clean clothes she’s never seen before atop her bed, made up perfectly where before it was a mess: a black wireless bra and matching underwear, black yoga pants and a long, buttery yellow t-shirt, so soft it practically melts to her touch.

* * *

“How,” Anne asks, unceremoniously collapsing onto her couch, “did you find time to buy clothes, and how did you—"

“Elizabeth told me your dryer wasn’t working this morning…defended your fashion honor via text,” Henry answers from his seat on the armchair, closing a book and leaning over to put it on their coffee table, “and I asked her for your sizes. My assistant bought them.”

“Thank you,” she says, rubbing the hollow of her throat, a futile attempt to assuage how scratchy it feels at the moment, “tell me how much it was and I’ll—“

“And _you’ll_ sleep. I’ll rewash your clothes, now that you’re done with the shower. Cold or warm?”

“Warm, I guess,” she murmurs, closing her eyes.

“You _guess_ —oh.”

There is a cool, light pressure against her forehead, a lock of her hair is swept aside.

“I meant the clothes, sweetheart.”

* * *

Anne wakes up on her side, on the couch with a pillow under her cheek. With one open eye (the other she rubs sleep from) she witnesses the world horizontally, the coffee table being the horizon ahead: there is another water bottle, a large plastic bowl, the same books are there but stacked, all the receipts are stacked under a column of quarters, there is a box of tissues.

It’s dark in the living room, there is the tumbling sound of something drying, there is the _more_ distant sound of running water.

There is the catch of something in her chest, it is traveling up, she is making herself vertical now and clutching the bowl, leaning over it and heaving.

There is the sound of running, there is her hair, being lifted from her neck.

She sets the bowl down when it is done, grabs a tissue and wipes her mouth.

“I have to brush my teeth…and also die.”

Rubber-encased hands help her up from the couch, he asks her if she can stand, walk, she says yes and shuffles towards the bathroom.

* * *

The sound of cloth unfurling, and an elastic snap, as she swirls mouthwash and spits it down the drain.

There are different sheets and pillowcases over her bed.

Henry hovers near it, something plastic and rectangular in his hand.

“I should check your temperature.”

“I want to _sleep_ ,” she pouts, getting under the covers.

“Of course—it won’t take long,” he soothes, sitting at the edge of the mattress, right next to her leg, “but I need to make sure you don’t get over one hundred and three.”

“ _Fine_.”

* * *

He slides it out of her mouth when it beeps, jots a sideways number down on a piece of paper.

She thinks of asking him why, but the click of the pen is the last thing she remembers before black edges everything else out.

* * *

“How long has she been sick?”

“Elizabeth said she went to bed unusually early last night, so could be then but—she was visibly sweaty around seven a.m.”

“Symptoms?”

“Threw up around seven, seemed disoriented. I had to leave, but I came back around eleven. She was vomiting again around noon, one, and then she fell asleep.”

Anne opens her eyes to a bent golden head, watches long fingers select something from a white case, lowers her gaze to see he’s sitting on a chair at her bedside.

“Why are you in my room?”

Azure eyes lift to hers behind tortoiseshell frames, there is a snap of rubber (gloves, he grabbed gloves from his case) as he smiles:

“I’m a doctor.”

He extends a gloved hand:

“It’s nice to meet you, Anne; I wish it were under better circumstances.”

She eyes it warily, looks at Henry, sitting on a chair next to him, who nods agreement.

“Yeah _right_ ,” she says with a snort, “a doctor’s on _Grey’s Anatomy,_ maybe.”

“Excuse me?”

“Is he your friend?” Anne asks, directing the question towards Henry.

“You could say I know him _fairly_ well,” he answers, laughing, “although it’s more fam—“

“Do _all_ your friends have to be over-the-moon attractive? Is that like...a _requirement_ for you?”

“When have you _seen_ any of my friends—“

“Elizabeth sent me a Snap of _Charles_. He is _ridiculous_.”

“He _is_ quite a dish,” the _‘doctor’_ remarks wryly (Henry turns his neck to glare so quickly she swears she hears a muscle crack), then:

“Is it alright if I check to see if your glands are swollen?”

She sighs, but nods ( _maybe this is a dream, anyway_ —she’s _never seen a doctor this hot outside of a television screen_ , perhaps it’s her _fevered brain_ throwing her _a bone for_  her _body’s agony_ ).

“I’m worried about her losing fluids—she’s small,” Henry says, “and possibly more delirious than I thought, given that she deemed _you ‘_ over-the-moon attractive’—“

“Relax. She’s probably just remarking on the _uncanny_ resemblance.”

“Between… you and Alex Pettyfer?” Anne asks him, squinting.

“Oh, _another_ dish, _thank_ you—I wish I had had _you_ to help me with my dating profile,” the doctor says, laughing so hard his shoulders shake as he unwinds the wire of a stethoscope from his neck, “rather than _this_ one over here.”

“How long have you known him?” she asks him.

“Since _birth_. Well,” he says, shrugging as he puts the pieces on top of the tool in his ears, “ _his_ , at any rate.”

“That’s a _long_ time.”

“One might say _too_ long,” Henry says, rolling his eyes.

His arms are crossed, thumbs pressing into his upper arms with such force that she can make out the indentations. 

“I can _hear_ you grinding your jaw—stop. You’ll have to wear a nightguard again.”

“Shut _up_ , Arthur.”

“That’s your name,” Anne asks sweetly, “Arthur? Like Camelot?”

“Yes. Arthur Tudor.”

“ _Oh_!” she gasps, clasping both hands over her mouth, then, pointing:

Arthur’s features are more chiseled while Henry’s are more… _carved_ , but they have the same chin.

She rests her own under closed fists and says:

“You have a _brother_!”

_Uncanny resemblance…since birth…ah!_

* * *

 They talk her into taking a bitter medicine. She swallows it with a sports drink and slips into sleep again, her dreams made up of their overlapping voices, wavy and from a distance:

> _Make sure to keep her fluid intake up._
> 
> _I will. Thank you for coming on such short notice._
> 
> _Of course. It’s…_
> 
> _(laughter, laughter that is wind-chimes and the flap of bird’s wings)_
> 
> _What?_
> 
> _Nothing, just… you **hate** being around sick people. Always have. And **yet** …._
> 
> _And yet, what?_
> 
> _This is the only time you’ve ever requested a house-call._
> 
> _I was worried._
> 
> _You were smitten, is what you were._
> 
> _I’m not._
> 
> _‘Over-the-moon’ Charles thinks so, too. Something about a picture in your wallet from—_
> 
> _Charles is a gossip with tabloid accuracy, and I’ll thank him not to discuss my personal life with you._
> 
> _When do I get to meet my niece?_
> 
> _I don’t want to push—whenever she’s okay with it. Or…whenever both of them, are._
> 
> _Okay…I hope soon. Where is she now?_
> 
> _Trivia club meeting._
> 
> _Your genetics at work, I see._
> 
> _More like her mother’s._
> 
> _Don’t do that._
> 
> _What?_
> 
> _Sell yourself short. You’re more well-read than anyone I’ve ever met, and I went to Harvard Med._
> 
> _That’s…okay._
> 
> _Show her your library—I’m sure she’ll adore it._
> 
> _That’s not…a **terrible** idea, actually._
> 
> _I’m **filled** with not-terrible ideas. You just never ask._

* * *

 “How is she?” Elizabeth asks, draping her school blazer over one of the chairs of their kitchen set.

 _Even his socks are nice_ , she thinks, fixated on how the creamy linen of them meet the floor where he stands, rendering it dingy in comparison.

“She’s sleeping,” Henry says, wiping down the island countertop in cleaning gloves, “in her room, if you want to—“

“Oh, no,” she says, wringing her hands together, “I’ll let her rest, I feel bad that I made her ride with me at all…”

“You didn’t know.”

“I still feel bad,” she says, walking over to the island and popping a grape in her mouth from a bowl, “thank you for keeping me updated.”

“Of course. How was your meet?”

“Oh, I was a wreck, distracted—one of my favorite subjects, too,” she says with a plaintive sigh, settling onto one of the spin-around leather stools, “Greek mythos.”

“Yeah? That was one of mine, too.”

“I’ve always felt such an affinity with Icarus.”

“Well, I certainly _hope_ I never make you feel that.”

* * *

Her hands still mid-play with the glorious red of her hair (she’s been strumming it, as one might a harp, as she does whilst talking often, the straight bedsheet of it draped over her shoulder):

“What do you mean?”

“It was his father that made him the wings.”

“Oh! I didn’t realize…well, no, not so much that, I related to more like…flying too high, having everyone watch you fall. _But_ ,” she says, placing both palms flat, “ _speaking_ of burning up...has her fever gone down at all since you last texted me?”

“It should, I had my—I had a doctor come over, he prescribed something that should help.”

“You _did_? Oh, _thank_ you,” she gushes, he’s midway through pulling the gloves off when she hugs him, tight and crushing, “that makes me feel _so_ much better, thank you, really!”

He freezes, surprise seizing him temporarily immobile, but then rights himself, hugs her back tentatively, letting his hand rest on the small of her back.

“I’m going to go grab my assignments,” Elizabeth says, giving one last squeeze before withdrawing, “be right back.”

* * *

Anne wakes up shivering, eases herself out of bed to flick the light switch and then, thinking better of it, falls back into bed with so much force that she hears the mattress squeak underneath her.

A few knocks on the door rattle her out of a daydream ( _nightdream?_ ):

“Come in.”

The doorknob creaks, she turns over and then stills, slides back up her headboard like a spider floating up a gossamer strand:

“You stayed.”

He shrugs, the tattoos on his arms move across his skin as he does, a black watercolor: he’s wearing a t-shirt now, and sweats ( _the assistant, again, maybe?)_

“I saw the light in the hall—you should take these, again,” Henry says, the pills in the orange bottle rattle as he shakes them, “since you’re awake.”

“Okay,” she says, palming around on her headboard (it’s rectangular, about six inches, she has a teddy bear Elizabeth gave her up there) until her hand closes around a water bottle.

He comes over to the bed, empties two pills in his hand, drops them in her open palm.

“Where’s Elizabeth?”

“Sleeping,” he answers while she drinks, “she finished her homework. I can—are you in pain?”

Anne feels the grooves around her mouth, realizes her wince, massages her jaw with one hand:

“No, I’m—my back just hurts a bit, is all.”

“Do you want an icepack?”

“Sure, that’d be…”

But he’s left already, so she says to the empty space in her doorway:

“…nice.”

* * *

“Do you want it between your shoulder blades,” Henry asks, the mattress creaking as he moves in a seat beside her, “or lower—“

“Middle,” she says, her voice muffled by the pillow underneath her face, “please.”

He clears his throat, presses the icepack against her shirt:

“I could get you a compress, actually, I think I bought—“

“Could you, um…put it on my skin?”

“ _Oh_. Uh…sure, of course.”

He picks it up the gel-pack case, blue as a chlorinated pool, and lifts the hem of her shirt, gingerly.

“Did I...meet your brother?” she asks in an incredulous-sounding warble.

“Er…yes,” he answers, slipping it under her shoulder blades, “how is that, is that the right spot?”

“Is he…a hot doctor?”

“Well, he’s a _doctor_ ,” Henry drawls, smoothing an absent-minded circle over the scooped neck, jutting the pad of his finger over her spine, “I don’t know about—“

 “ _Oooh_ , that’s nice. Can you keep doing that?”

“The—this?” he asks, rubbing a circle over the silky fabric, a ridge of muscle hard under his hand.

“Mmm, yes—your hands are cold,” she says, sleepily, wriggling a bit, “it feels nice.”

“Alright.”

And so he sits, rubbing soothing circles into her back. It draws coos from her now and then, like a bow pressed against the strings of a violin. He lifts her hair off the back of her neck, his fingers get tangled in it, he plucks them out carefully as she says:

“You can do under, too. Unless it’s gross, I’m probably still sweat—“

“Hush,” he scolds, sliding a palm over her spine, circular motions again, up and down and around, he presses where there is the most tension and she sighs intermittently.

* * *

After a few minutes she curls up on her side, then rolls over, upwards.

“Do you feel any better?” he asks.

Anne scooches upwards, he tucks pillows behind her back as she does, then leans back, expectant.

She reaches out, runs her first two knuckles from the top of his cheekbone, curling them at the corner of his mouth, feeling the scrape of stubble on the way down:

“I’m sorry."

“For?” he asks, the dark blue and grey of his eyes are so brightly shining that _they may actually be…damp,_ she feels a muscle in his jaw move against her touch. 

“You’re not what I imagined you’d be like,” she whispers, rolling the pads of her fingers down to his neck, pressing against his pulse (it presses back).

“What does that mean?”

She runs the edge of her teeth along her bottom lip, finding it to be quivering, presses down on it, steeling herself, but:

“You’re tired,” Henry says, and it is said with such gentleness that she feels a sob lodge itself somewhere above her heart, a bubble waiting to burst, “you can...tell me later.”

Anne nods, wrinkling her nose.

“When you feel better.”

He turns off the light before closing the door behind him with a squick.

She waits till she hears footsteps before she gives the sob its release, it is like a live thing, breathing against a pillow she clutches, racking her entire body.

Her last thought before she falls asleep is this:

That she can’t remember the last time someone rubbed her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo that thing everyone has had questions about (why anne didn't tell henry she was pregnant, etc.) is kind of alluded to in this and will, muse willing, be explained next chap!
> 
> thanks for your patience, guys <3 hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> "Je m'excuse," Anne says, " mais vous ne l'avez pas été très accommodante putain, non?" = "Excuse me, but you haven't been very fucking accomodating"
> 
> "Pardon, mais--" = "Sorry, but--"
> 
> "Me donner deux verres et je vous laisse le reste. Je vais essayer de vous entendre avec ce gars. D'accord? " = "I'll leave you the rest (of the bottle). I would like to sleep with him. Ok?"
> 
> "D'accord" = "Ok"
> 
> Merci = Thank you
> 
> "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?" = would you like to sleep with me tonight?  
> criminal, fiona apple: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFOzayDpWoI
> 
> harder to breathe, maroon 5: http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/139709742612/aidanmaybe-harder-to-breathe-maroon-5
> 
> baby one more time, britney spears: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C-u5WLJ9Yk4
> 
> building a mystery, sarah mclachlan: http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/139712786152/slobbered-sarah-mclachlan-building-a
> 
> set fire to the third bar (not timeline compliant, given that this song was released post 2002, but, yknow, just go with it): http://boleynqueens.tumblr.com/post/139686113702/literallyelle-set-the-fire-to-the-third-bar
> 
> if anyone liked this and is into modern au's, i have a long, multi-chap modern verse for henry/anne set at a university here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5543693/chapters/12788132
> 
> there's not any smut in it (yet), but oodles more chapters than this verse.


End file.
